


Horrible Bosses: Louis XVI of France

by Keyblader41996



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical Hetalia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 198,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7703770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keyblader41996/pseuds/Keyblader41996
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of a collection I'm calling Horrible Bosses. Louis XVI. The year is 1774, and Louis XVI of France has just stepped into power. As France the country falls apart, can France the Nation manage to keep his head? Historical!Hetalia, French Revolution fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! This is my first Hetalia fanfic as well as the first part of a collection I'm calling Horrible Bosses. It will be about each country as they deal with terrible rulers they've had at any point in history. This one is about France, and his interactions with Louis XVI, who ended up being King during the French Revolution in 1789. I hope you enjoy it! When there's a lot of dialogue, I use a lot of simple French. I won't be putting translations in unless you readers want them, in which case PM me or leave it in the review if you have time! Thanks so much!
> 
> -Keyblader41996

**_France_ **  
_**1774** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles, Galerie des Glaces** _

_The King is dead! Louis XV is dead! Long live Louis XVI!_

France had to ignore it.

He had to. He had to push through.

He had to ignore the queasiness; the anxiety; the odd pressure in his head.

He had things to do, a country to run, a King to settle in.

Back and forth, back and forth, pacing nervously in front of (what used to be) Louis XV's throne, wringing his hands like he was trying to throttle them. He had to ignore the physical symptoms of the King switch. And yet, he couldn't figure out why it was was so hard. Why was it hitting him harder now than ever before? Why couldn't he adjust?

France saw his fair share of monarchs in his long, immortal life. He should be used to this irritating, persistent pain in his chest and lungs - he could expect it for the next month or two as the entire Court scrambled to settle Louis XV's affairs. He should be used to the political chaos, the people's mourning. Whether Louis XV was a good monarch or not, a sort of melancholy had still spread over the cities and country-sides of France and cloaked the Nation's heart in heavy lead.

France snorted indignantly. This was only the initial phase! After this came the nausea for the remainder of the time until Louis XVI settled in. God, he couldn't let it distract him! If he wasn't careful, the bourgeoisie and the Courtiers would work with (pay off?) Parliament and legislation on the sly. They would implement whatever changes they wanted while they were still King-free.

And of course, they would never asked France for his opinion or his suggestions. To them, he was just a random 20-ish year old kid (ahem) who, by some miraculous circumstance, won his place next to Louis XV. They didn't trust him, and even if they did France would only be a block to their agendas. Granted, they didn't know of his status as a Nation, only that Louis XV left specific instructions regarding France's consent on all matters. And they ripped France in all different directions, and his body did flip-flops trying to adjust to new orders as it changed his people and his country.

God, the nausea! It was bad as soon as Louis XV died. It only got worse since Louis XVI was officially named from Dauphin to successor.

Which meant the people didn't support the new King. Which sent his body into even more turmoil.

Oh. Right. That was why it felt like he was drowning in the symptoms, unable to swallow them down and push through.

France did not attend the coronation. He felt particularly ill that day and missed out, bedridden with headaches. The worst experience he had on behalf of Louis XVI was when the Dauphin married Marie Antoinette. The people's hatred and discontent for her Austrain heritage bled into France so badly he developed a fever, and a terrible temper. One day it rose so high he collapsed, delusional in a feverish rage. He yelled, screamed, fumed at Louis XV and anybody that came near including his personal doctor. They wrestled him into bed, and he spent the rest of the week alternating between calling Louis XV a traitor to France for arranging their union, and throwing up his guts. So NOT a beautiful moment for the beautiful France.

The distant clang of church bells ripped France out of his reverie with a start. 14:00. His crystalline blue eyes locked on the door for any signs of life. Louis should have arrived a half hour ago. After a few good minutes of staring he sighed in frustration, then exhaustion. His pointy-toed shoes made loud, articulated clicks on the immaculate marble floor while he resumed his pacing.

He quickly scolded himself. " _Calm down, France! Meeting the King should not be this stressful! At this rate, you'll need a powdered wig just to hide your grey hairs_ ," he thought to himself absently. He adjusted the bottom of his silk, lavender vest, re-fluffed his cravat, and smoothed his skin-tight beige pantaloons, chuckling miserably to himself. He knew the real reason why he was so nervous, and if he was totally honest with himself, it wasn't the people making him feel as sick as he was. France didn't spend centuries glancing over the shoulders of rulers for nothing. A 19 year old young man who was walking into: the backlash of the Seven Years' War loss; the loss of countless French territories and foreign footholds; the War of Austrian Succession that Louis XV so carelessly joined; the entire country on the brink of debt; and general public discontent didn't hold France's vote of confidence.

Not that the Nation couldn't be proved wrong - he certainly had been before. His first impression of Charlemagne upon his early years as a Nation was that he was a battle-obsessed nimrod, fighting for the sake of fighting just so that he wouldn't have to play with la petite France. Of course, he was a child back then, with a child's view of a 'meanie' like Charlemagne. He learned later, naturally, that it was for expansion and unification purposes, and not war for the sake of war, or for spiting him.

Sure, he was wrong before, and he was sure to be wrong again. But something stubborn jabbing him in the pit of his stomach that he was sure wasn't his skin-tight waistband left him feeling unconvinced that he would be wrong about Louis XVI.

France sighed, glaring tiredly up at the ceiling. Luckily for him, the gilt frames around the beautiful stillness of captured people and tamed nature grabbed his attention. He stared from painting to painting, making out what details he could with the ceiling being so high. Even his sharpened senses as a Nation couldn't make out some of the finer details of the art. It was pointless, then, to build the palace like this, he thought, absently stroking the purple ribbon in his hair and twirling the end of his blond ponytail around his finger.

He guessed that by the time he finished staring another half hour passed. A whole hour late! This young man was not scoring very high marks already.

France's stomach did a little flip.

 _"Mon Dieu_ ," he breathed, massaging his temples against the sudden onslaught of a headache. He hoped Louis, whatever he was like, settled in quickly, if only for France's sake. Then the council and the people at court and Parliament would settle in. France would force them to send things to the King one issue at a time. It was France's job, or, Monsieur Bonnefoy, to step in as chief advisor and help him take the proper course of action to ensure the country's well-being and prosperity. It was his job to lead le Roi through the garbage of court, the machinations of courtiers and Parliament, help him block out who needed blocked out, keep his head clear so he could see the core of the issues and make smart political decisions.

France could advise him on what to do to solve issues, but because he was a Nation, and because his government was an absolute monarchy, he couldn't force his King to do anything. The King had ultimate power, and all final decisions rested with him. He could listen to France if he wanted to, or he could not. And if he did not, well, France was out of luck. Louis XV didn't listen to France about the War of Austrian Succession. He didn't listen to France about proper taxation. He didn't listen to France when he told him to walk with more guards, did he? Non! Non, bien sûr que non! He left France in lost-war-caused debt, social uprising, and he luckily survived that assassination attempt! The country was slowly plummeting down the chamber pots because the king didn't have to listen to their own National Personification.

And then there was also that other little quirk that the Absolute Monarchial Nations had to deal with: there was some genetically-encoded . . . compulsion in the Nations. Anytime their leaders gave them a direct, concise order, they were forced to follow it. They couldn't help it. It just wasn't in their National power to disobey for some reason. So if one day Louis XVI said, "Francis, leave the Palace and never come back..."

France was overreacting. "You haven't even met him, _stupide!_ "

That wasn't entirely true. Louis had been born in Versailles. France interacted with him as a baby and small child on a few short occasions. If France recalled correctly, he had an odd obsession with locks. He liked taking them apart and putting them back together, tinkering with them, discovering how they work. And he rarely talked. France hardly saw the boy at all, spending a majority of his time in Louis XV's office. And then the boy was whisked away for tutoring, and the other menial aspects of a royal upbringing. Not like how it used to be in the Medieval Era when France would educate the Dauphin on politics, war, economics, the works.

France supposed it was a bad time to bring back his nickname for Louis XVI from back then, _'mon petit Prince.'_

France's heels and shoe buckle resumed their cadence, a click with a slight undertone of articulated _clack_ as he slowly paraded back and forth like a puppy that lost its master in a thick crowd.

He sighed again and finally decided to take a seat - not on _Sa Majesté's_ throne, that would be treasonous no matter how elegant and stylish it looked. Plus, he had yet to discover the nature of this new King's temperament. He instead opted for a posh gold couch placed dejectedly off to one side of the literal seat of power. The gold clashed pleasingly with the soft, quiet lavender of his vest and coat, and matched the gold embroidered trim on both. France paused and checked his image in one of the mirrors, readjusting and re-fluffing. He flicked the back of his long coat out from under him before sitting.

No sooner had he touched the cushion that the heavy mahogany door opened and an entourage strolled in. France jumped up, expecting to come face-to-face with King Louis Auguste de Capet XVI himself. Instead, the group was headed by an upstanding member of the King's Court. France quickly picked his brain for the man's name, but it didn't come to him before he greeted France with a low bow. " _Monsieur! C'est très bon de vous voir!_ " France just had to hope a situation never came around where he had to use his name.

" _Et vous aussi, Monsieur_ ," France said, also bowing in reply.

He leaned in to France and whispered into his ear. "Sorry we are so late. _Sa Majesté_ was a little nervous to meet you. He is very, very shy."

France remembered. Barely speaking when directly spoken to, forgoing conversation for the hunt. France heard even worse rumors when he still stood next to Louis XV. He heard about the awkward royal couple that were too shy to consummate their ill-favored union. He knew the things that were whispered about the talented locksmith Louis who was too timid and embarrassed to "find the keyhole," if you caught France's drift. He just ignored them, strategically avoiding the realization that he may soon have a coward on his hands, and no heir.

He pulled away from France and turned towards a young man, tall in stature and well-proportioned, if a tiny bit on the plump side. Only, he lost a few inches because he kept his head down. His powdered wig held two white curls on either side of his full face, hiding a lightly brown natural color. He had small lips and eyes which added to his meek appearance. They flicked up to France momentarily and greyish-blue connected with vibrant, crystalline blue. And for a second France saw the true emotion driving Louis-Auguste: fear. He tried hard to hide it, though, attempting instead to opt for a dead, vacant, and unreadable expression. A blush colored Louis' face and ruined the effect. His eyes flicked elsewhere and he played at the lace trailing from his sleeves, a nervous tic.

" _I wonder who the idiot was that taught him Court etiquette. He'll be eaten alive if he is not assertive, or at least confident_ ," France thought miserably.

The cravat around Louis' neck and the royal cloak hastily concealed the rest of him, like he subconsciously wanted to bury his discomfort and just be swallowed up. The cloak itself was thick blue velvet with a fur collar, embroidered with thick, heavy houndstooth. _Fleur-de-lis_ all over it. Around them on the velvet were gold and blue patterns woven so intricately it left France dizzy after staring for too long. The colors were beautiful, and pleasing to France's eye. Obviously a fashionable man that cared about his appearance. But what about political matters?

France swallowed the uncertainty that rose in his throat like bile and stepped up to the man, drawing a bit below eye level. To his dismay, Louis' eyes slid away from him to the floor, the wall, anywhere but his face. France still laid his best charm on thick and flashed his most dazzling smile, offering his hand to Louis XVI delicately.

 _"Mon Roi_ ," he purred smoothly, bowing his head.

France could sense Louis' red faced hesitation, and he raised only his eyes to see the King's body turn slightly. He glanced almost pleadingly at who France could only guess was a governor or tutor. The man nodded and Louis finally pressed his soft hand in France's. The Nation dropped to a knee before him and kissed the crest of Bourbon House on his ring before releasing his hand.

He wasn't supposed to get up, not until His Majesty told him to, so he respectfully stayed in his position, head bowed low, kneeling in front of the uncertain man before him.

" _I hope he's not shy enough to feel he needs approval for everything. This does not bode well_."

Waiting, waiting, waiting awkwardly in the silence for someone to say something.

A soft voice squeezed itself from between Louis XVI's tiny lips, "...rryocortrmm..." He trailed off at the end.

"U-um, _excusez-moi?"_ France asked.

"Speak up, _Majesté_. You are the King now," a Court member instructed him.

"Are you a Courtier, Monsieur?" he asked France a little louder.

France looked up into Louis' face and tried to read Louis' expression. There was a different glow to his diverted eyes that hadn't been there before, but the rest of his face was still forcibly cold. France realized he was trying to look disinterested. He was trying to seem hard to read. Why, France had to figure out.

"Oui, I attend Court, but that is not my position here-"

"Parliament?" he asked suddenly.

France, confused, shook his head. "Non-"

"Bourgeoisie?"

"Non, _Votre Maj-_ "

"Then you are the court composer?"

"Non, but I can play the pianoforte a bit, cello and violin, flute-"

"Then where is your wig, Monsieur?"

"My...my what?"

"Your wig, sir. It is the style of the upper class now. Everybody wears one. I didn't think you were part of the upper class because otherwise you would wear one," he said quietly.

He hated those powdered wigs. They were itchy, they smelled after a while, they looked ridiculous-even to him! And if a fashion statement upset France, well, then it really had to be bad. "Are you kidding? And hide _this_ hair?" he asked, twirling a piece around his finger.

" . . . "

" . . . That was a joke," France quickly remedied.

"I didn't get it."

Geez. Shy, but not uncandid. And extremely observant, France noted, a bit surprised by the extent to which he was. It readily confirmed that the dull expression was an act. He definitely was smarter than he allowed people to believe. But why? Why the act? If he was shy, then seeming smart and uneasy to fool should have been his wisest and most valuable career move. "I am of the upper class, _Votre Majesté_. I am to be your chief adviser. There's still much to explain, but it's something we must discuss alone. Francis Bonnefoy, at your service." From his kneeling position on the floor he let his arm elegantly curl a few times in front of him in a cordial motion of a bow.

Awkward silence ensued again and France lowered his hand. He cleared his throat and shifted on the floor, in a sign of obvious discomfort.

" _Votre Majesté_ , perhaps you should allow Monsieur Bonnefoy to stand. He's paid his proper respects."

Louis just grunted and France rose gratefully.

"I want to go hunting," Louis announced softly, spinning on his heels. France again noticed that his eyes never ventured above anyone's vest buttons. He started walking out of the room to escape all the attention.

France started and followed after him, protesting loudly, "Ah, wait! I was hoping to discuss what I mentioned earlier with you now-"

"His Majesty is very tired. I'm sure after after a nice relaxing hunt to recharge, he'll be ready to discuss whatever you need, Monsieur Bonnefoy," a Court member said, already trying to get on his good side. He lightly pulled his arm, and Louis offered no resistance.

France followed hastily and ran around the group, stopping directly in front of the King. " _Votre Majesté_ , this isn't something that should wait. I'd like to explain the . . . nuances of my position, and-"

Louis waved him aside annoyingly. "Oui, oui, we will talk later. Jean," he said, turning to another of his group, "fetch Marie. Tell her where I am headed."

He left without another word to France.

France's first impression: timid, as they said. But he was quietly observant, sharp, and he possessed the ability to analyze, based on the wig comment. And yet he purposefully hid it. He kept up with fashion like a true French nobleman, and respected popular culture and couture. But he was too shy for his own good. He was viable to be led around blindly until he learned to trust Francis. Even then he didn't seem like he would listen very well.

The kind of man France needed in a time like this? Absolutely not.

France ran a nervous hand through his sunlight colored locks, messing up the ribbon and pulling out the ponytail.

It was going to be a bumpy ride. And France wasn't sure if his stomach could handle it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you have time!


	2. Chapter 2

**_July, 1774_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_ **  
**_Library of Louis XVI_ **

Louis signed his name as quickly and messily as possible, then dropped the pen to take up the silver padlock he was trying to pick.

"Just a minute, _Mon Roi_ , we're not finished yet," France said. He slipped another piece of parchment between Louis' face and the lock. "I need you to sign this, too."

He sighed and dropped the lock. "But I don't want to sign anything else," he whined like a child.

"I know this is tedious," France prompted softly, "but once all of these are settled, you'll be free to do what you want." Gentle coercing usually worked for Louis.

"What even is it?"

"It's an order from the Parisian Architectural Guild. They are requesting a bigger grant to help maintain the streets and buildings of Paris."

Louis' face curled up in disgust at the horrible, world-ending thought of signing something else, but he did as he was told. He went for the lock again.

"Now, hold on! Don't drop that pen!" France said quickly before Louis could duck out again.

"Uuuugh!" Louis groaned in a completely un-royal display.

"Oh, come on! It's the last one! Work with me here! It's-"

Louis snatched the paper away from him, crumpling it all up, and didn't even look at it. He scrawled a hasty 'Louis' at the bottom and handed it back with a glare to France's feet.

Whatever his feet did to deserve it, France didn't know. So in defense of his perfectly pedicured toes he returned the glare to Louis' face and tried to convey 'For a 20 year old you're being a brat,' and 'I'm getting sick of dealing with you,' simultaneously. Louis, of course, missed it. In a bout of super-human control he dropped the face and maintained his composure, smoothing the paper and coaxing his last nerve into a less frayed state.

"That better be all, sir- or, whatever you are," Louis said haughtily.

"I told you, Louis. You've known me for two months, now. You can call me France, if you want. Or Francis Bonnefoy."

"Francis," he began again. 'France' must've still been a little too awkward for him. It usually was a shock at first to learn about the Nations. The only one who ever believed him immediately was Louis XIV, two Louis's before this one. And his old Kings from centuries past. At least he let France call him 'Louis' just now. A step in the right direction. This Louis took to his lock again. "That better be it."

"Actually, there's one more thing- but all you have to do is listen!" France added quickly to placate the glare Louis cast the lock in his hands. "The Comte de Mercy-Argentou-"

"Who?"

"The Viennese ambassador to Versailles. Marie's advisor? Been here since 1766?"

Louis shrugged. France sighed, but continued to his point. "The Comte de Mercy-Argentou has expressed concerns to me on behalf of the Austrian court about a certain. . . issue that falls to your responsibility. Now, I know things are still confusing and you're still adjusting and what not but . . . well . . . ' _Just say it, France_ ,'" he thought to himself," _'It's obvious it won't come to him by itself_.' It's been four years since your political union with Marie, and . . . well . . . don't you think it's time for you to start thinking about putting the sword in the sheath, if you get my meaning?"

Louis paused in his lock-picking long enough to shoot France a completely horrified look.

"You know," France tried again, "Threading the needle? If you know what I mean?"

"No, I don't think I do," Louis said hesitantly.

"Putting the baguette in the oven?"

"..."

"You know, _fitting the key in the lock_?" He tried an analogy Louis might understand. He was grasping at straws, and Louis obviously didn't understand. "Oh, _Mon Dieu_!" France finally gave up. "An _heir_! You need to think about having an _heir_! An heir is the symbol of the stability and success and perseverance of the monarchy! And it'll seal any power vacuums later! You need an heir!"

Louis fumbled heavily with the lock and paled so quickly France thought Louis would be sick.

"Louis?" he asked nervously, worried _le Roi_ was having a heart attack right in front of him. "Are you okay?" Louis nodded slowly. " _Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas_?"

Louis' face abruptly went from white to red.

France suddenly thought of a Guillaume de Machaut piece from the Medieval Era that was one of his favorites about courtly love, "I Can All Too Well Compare My Lady":

_'Je puis trop bien ma dame comparer a l'image que fist Pymalion._

_D'ivoire fu tant belle et si sans per que plu l'ama que Medée Jazon._

_Li folz toudis la prioit, mais l'image riens ne le respondoit._

_Einse me fait celle qui mon cuer font, qu'ades la pri et riens ne me respont.'  
_

  


_'I can all too well compare my lady to the image made by Pygmalion._

_It was made of ivory, so beautiful and peerless that he loved it more than Jason loved Medea._

_Foolish, he prayed to it constantly, but the image did not respond._

_Thus does she who melts my heart treat me, for I pray to her always and she answers me not.'_

Oooooh! France knew what was wrong. They were shy about love! This was France's element!

Ok, in retrospect, maybe France jumped the gun. Maybe he got a little too personal with Louis, too quickly. They only knew each other for two months, after all. Maybe he could've done a better job of getting to know Louis before bringing this up. Unfortunately for both of them, the SCREAMING chance for him to connect with Louis somehow, man-to-man, presented itself, and France was not about to let it slip. Especially not if it was over a love issue. 'Bonding,' as it were. Who knew more about _l'amour_ than France himself?

"Oooooh! Is Louis having a bit of trouble lighting the lady's firework, hm? Well, you've come to the right man!" he said excitedly, forgetting he brought it up to Louis in the first place. "First things first: both of you get drunk. It really. . . loosens the knots."

"What?"

"Then! Charm her! Compliment her! Really make her feel like she's special. When you really love someone, and she already is special to you, it isn't hard," France said with a small smile. "The words will tumble from your heart straight out through your mouth. You won't even have to think about what to say. _L'amour_ will take care of it. You'll say things you didn't even know you felt. And they'll be true, and they'll be raw, and all of a sudden, the room fades out. Picture it: there's one light around you, and it's focused on her." France closed his eyes, as he hoped Louis was. But instead of Marie, standing in France's light was a short-haired woman, in a full suit of armor. "The light illuminates her face, her eyes, beautiful and blue, her golden hair, her body." Jeanne's curves in the armor . . . "You love her. She loves you." France opened his eyes and was surprised to see he had Louis' attention. For a moment. "That will lead to the kissing."

Louis rolled his eyes like a defiant teen and turned his attention to the lock. France didn't care. He was on a beautiful, passion-feuled tangent, and he wasn't about to get off of it. Yup. Way too personal.

"Your lips will press together. Softly, hesitantly, but filled with passion. She is yours, and yours alone. As you both get comfortable, passion will turn to desire. She will be all you know. All you see. All you want. Everything you could ever want will be fulfilled by holding her in your arms and never letting her go. It's a fire! It'll burn through your whole body! But especially the 'bayonet'!" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Louis missed that too, focusing way too intently on the lock in his hands. "What does that even-"

"By then the mood has been set! One thing will lead to another! Pretty soon you'll be clawing at each other's clothes, and she'll be all over you and- Hey! Are you even listening?"

"Got it!" Louis cried triumphantly, snapping the arm of the lock open.

"I'm trying to give you advice! Having an heir is a really important part of regency, and you're talking to a love expert! I taught your _grand-père_ everything he knew! So you should be taking notes or something, especially if this is a problem-"

"I don't even understand half of those euphemisms! Are you done? Because you're annoying me, and I want to go hunting. You're not invited this time. I don't want you pestering me!"

France really wasn't close to Louis at all, but somehow that still really insulted him. His shoulders sagged, defeated, and he sighed. " _Oui, j'ai fini_. Just think about trying to court your wife, okay? I don't know what you think, but believe me, it'll come back to bit you! And me!"

He yelled that at Louis' back. He was already out the door.

 

**_January, 1775_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, State Apartments_ **  
**_Drawing Room of Plenty_ **

"It's just not feasible at this time, _Votre Majesté_ , Monsieur Bonnefoy," a Parliament member whose name escaped France said, addressing them both in turn. "I'm afraid we must reject this proposal. What else would you like to bring up?"

France turned to Louis, hopefully masking his disappointment. " _Votre Majesté_?" he prompted, hoping Louis would take the reins. Louis looked up from his hands in his lap long enough to wave France forward, then went back to staring at whatever was so terribly interesting about his royal loins. France looked around, embarrassed, and ignored the snickers and chuckles.

"Um, alright." France stood again. " _His Majesty_ would like to bring to the Parliament's attention the high tax on the property owned by business owners." And by His Majesty, of course, France meant he brought it up to Louis in the first place, and all he got was a 'meh', a dismissive wave, and an 'I'll bring it up to Parliament.' "He thinks it is a bit excessive to tax them on the merchandise they are trying to sell. Don't you, Louis?"

Louis, of course, didn't answer. France glanced over and saw him spacing out, eyes glazed and glued out the window. France cleared his throat and said a little louder, "DON'T you, Louis?"

"Eh? Oui, oui," he said quietly.

France smiled as well as he could through the urge to strangle that man. He walked over to Louis' spot at the head of the table and whispered harshly in his ear, " _Pay attention! You're making me look like a fool!_ Right! So, as I was saying, gentlemen, I've got a whole mess of grievances here from the people saying that the taxes are actually canceling out revenue. This one especially is very specific, written by a man named Robespierre. They're losing money," he said, shuffling the papers in his hand to pass around the room.

Glances were shared around the table before a senior member spoke up, "Ah, that's quite alright, Francis. You DO know that the taxes are the only source of income for the crown right now, right?"

"I know that. Louis XV was not a very good financial planner. But you're making up for it the wrong way. You're taking it from the wrong people."

"How so?" someone demanded.

"Well, the working class is the backbone of France. They work to try to pay both their nobles' taxes and the crown's taxes. By taking it all and then some, they have no money to contribute to the economy. Think about it! They're not consuming goods, people don't make money, they can't pay your taxes . . . It's a vicious cycle."

He was met with silence. France sighed frustratedly. "Let me put it this way, in these simple terms: YOU lose money if they do." That was the way to get through to these guys. Threaten their pockets.

"Francis," said another. "We appreciate that your thought and heart is with the people. We all appreciate it. But it doesn't look like Louis is really in support of your idea. I'm not sure about all of the other men here, but I'm more than a little skeptical to pass something _le Roi_ doesn't seem to have faith in himself. I'm not even talking about the flaws in your design. The nobles need those taxes-"

"Oh, please, for what?!" France put his disgust in his tone.

"Why, we must pay our taxes to the King too! How do you think we get our money?"

"You collect MORE than enough to sit at banquet, and have the nice clothes, and own your estates, and pay the servants you have, AND pay your own taxes which are less than a FRACTION of theirs!"

He could see it on their faces. Their condescending, haughty, indignant faces. He would lose this one. Louis would do nothing to help him.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to reject this one too. All in favor of rejection?" Hands rose all around the table. "Next order of business you'd like to bring up?"

For what, another disaster? "Nothing," France said quietly, taking his seat. "I'm done."

 

**_March, 1775_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_ **  
**_Louis' Bedchamber_ **

France rapped his knuckles heavily on the door of Louis' chambers and let himself in, still shaking the ink dry on the order he wrote.

" _Bonjour, Mon Roi_ ," he called. "I'm back!"

He walked in on the King stretched lazily out on one of the many couches that littered the room, heavy coat and vest strewn haphazardly on the floor, glass of wine in hand.

France didn't even bow. He made a beeline for the bottle of expensive _Vin Jaune_ on the floor and helped himself, aware that he was under Louis' gaze the whole time.

"Did you draw up the document like I asked, France?" he asked, used to France's wine-induced informality by then.

 _Merde_. He vainly hoped Louis wouldn't bring it up so France could put it off for as long as possible.

" _Oui, Majesté_. The dress orders for Marie, right here," he said, juggling his liberally filled wine glass to put the paper in Louis' hand. "All it needs is your signature."

Louis sighed like it was such a nuisance and peeled himself from the couch. He held his own glass to France as he sat at his desk. "Where is yours?"

"My signature?"

"Yes. You need to sign this, too."

"Uuuuum, actually, I have declined my signature."

"Declined it?"

"Yes. Because I disagree with this purchase."

Louis stared wide-eyed up at him. _Oh crap, really?_ "Will it still pass?"

France nodded quickly. "Oh yes, of course! With your signature it will still pass. Things like this - personal orders, Versailles improvements, and the like will still pass without my signature. Anything dealing with finances and legislation must run through me and Parliament. That's how it works." He paused. "My signature overrules a third of the Parliament."

"Why?"

"Well, when _Le Roi Soleil_ was in power, and even before him, my signature overruled the entire Parliament, but then Louis XV desired more . . . statistical support and-"

"No, I mean why must they go through the Parliaments? Why can't my signature overrule all?"

"Oh. Because Louis XV figured that if an entire group of men was in accordance against him, he probably wasn't presenting the best idea. He wanted to give the Parliaments the option to overrule him." Which was fancy talk for, 'He was indecisive.'

Louis frowned, but nodded his understanding. Right as he picked up his pen, France tried his last protest. " _Mon Roi_ , you do know how expensive this is, right?"

Louis just grunted in response and carefully dabbed the feather pen in the ink well, taking extreme care to avoid dripping on France's curly, perfect handwriting. The tip touched the paper and hesitated, and for a relieved moment France thought he was reconsidering the 10,000 livre purchase. But then the pen started to move. France watched defeatedly as Louis penned his name with a flourish and stamped the Bourbon Crest in wax next to it.

He picked the parchment up and gave it one last once-over before nodding and holding it out to France. He deposited both wine glasses on the nearest table and pinched the order in disdain between two fingers like it carried the rise of the second plague on it. "Okay! That takes care of that. I'm so glad we solved the pressing matter of the Queen's dresses. Now that that's out of the way, we can focus on the less important things I keep bringing up, like the national debt."

Louis detected the sarcasm in France's tired tone and frowned up at him but didn't comment, as per usual. At this point France wished he would. France wished he would get angry, ask what was wrong, ask why France was being so (purposefully) snippy, ask why France put off certain things for as long as possible until Louis ordered it of him (like Marie's dress orders), and why things such as approvals for improved wages that France brought up himself ended up in his hand within the hour.

Of course, Louis didn't confront him. France decided to take the initiative. Come right out and say it again.

"Louis," France began softly. As a friend. Not as a Nation or an advisor, as a friend. Maybe he would listen to a friend. "Don't you think you're giving Marie a little too much leeway with the national purse?" he asked hopefully.

"This again, France? _Vraiment_?"

"Oui, this again! Please, this is the sixth dress order in two weeks! I am every bit as fashionable as the next man, but this is ridiculous! Last weekend it was jewelry! Are the trumpeters really necessary every time you set foot outside?"

Louis, infernally, refused to look France in the eye. "It's what _ma Reine_ wants. Who am I to stop her? Fetch my wine glass."

France was already grabbing the glass before his dumb-struck mind caught up. "We do not have the money to continue to allow her to spend as she does! All the money taxed out of the people is going straight to her gambling, her parties, her clothes . . . It should be going to the farms to help try and recover the harvests. Did you know they're failing?"

Louis waved a hand dismissively. "France-"

"We should be spending the tax money on rebuilding our decimated military! We need to spend it on the Third Estate, and we need to spend it on helping the working class, the people, Louis! Not Marie's next gala!"

"France, I do not desire your council right now-"

"France is a financial wreck because of Louis XV's countless wars-"

"And how is that my fault?"

"Because any money we do get Marie's burning through like a witch at the stake, and you're letting her!"

Louis tossed back the rest of his wine and set the glass down hard on the table with a bang. "I don't need to hear this right now. I am _le Roi de France_! Not you! You are my subject, just like everyone else! I make the laws, I levy the taxes, I spend them as I see fit, I declare wars, I make peace, I contract alliances. I don't need you to tell me-"

"Please, Louis," France resorted to begging. "Listen to me AS FRANCE, then! Listen to me as the Nation. Not Monsieur Bonnefoy, the advisor. If you don't fix this debt now-"

"I will bring it up to Parliament. Until then, you are not to bring this up to me again. Are we clear?"

There it was again. The dodge. The ultimate France hoodwink. He was skirting the problem because he didn't want to see one. And Parliament was where France's council met its roadblock. It was Louis' choice on who he listened to.

As one could imagine, it didn't usually go in France's favor.

"Are. We. Clear. France?"

"Oui," he surrendered to the order bitterly. "Oui, _Votre Majesté_."

And then in a bizarre and completely ill-timed and humiliating twist of irony la Reine herself popped her head into Louis' chambers.

France had to do a double-take. Sitting atop her head was a bird. A false bird with its talons tangled messily in her hair. Other strands were arranged in knots and roughly gathered like a nest around the bird. All manner of flowers, some of which even France couldn't identify, were braided and twisted among and around the entire piece, giving her the look of a natural Medusa. Her elegant dress matched her nature theme. It was a vibrant, pastel green speckled with purple, blue, yellow, and pink flowers.

France sent Louis the most obvious 'I Told You So' glare, larger than one he ever sent England. She did look ravishing in those colors, but then was SO not the time. Both their jaws were on the floor.

"Louis, dear- ah! Bonjour, Francis!" she said cheerily, smiling sweetly.

He stayed in his stupor until her face fell, and she cleared her throat at France's lack of respect. With a start he blinked his way back into rational thought. " _Désolé, ma Reine, pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plaît_. Your intense beauty left me speechless," he flattered her. The smile returned to her face and she nodded her thanks as France bowed deeply.

"I'm throwing a ball tonight!" she announced happily. "All of my friends and courtiers will be there. I already invited all of your courtiers as well. You're invited too, Monsieur Bonnefoy."

"Oh, non, non, non! I'd only kill the mood-"

"Nonsense," she said. "You'll be there. Oh, it'll be the ball of the century!"

France smiled sadly. "I'm sure it will. _Excusez-moi_ ," he said, bowing to each of his monarchs and leaving the room.

His heart jumped against his chest in his anger, and he stomped to his chambers. He couldn't help but let a shocked, hot tear spill down his cheek, and let panic swell within him as he replayed the conversation with Louis in his head.

This was a disaster. He was a disaster. France would become a disaster with Louis at the helm.

He slammed the door and didn't realize he was having a panic attack and hyperventilating until black crept into the edge of his vision, and his chest heaved from lack of breath. He slid down the door and mentally braced his arms on the crumbling, caving walls. He ran a hand through his blond hair and tried to calm himself down.

" _'He'll see reason. Eventually. Just keep pushing him as much as you can, France. Keep pushing him until he comes to his senses, mans up, and does his job._ ' Oh, Mon Dieu," he finished aloud.

He'd be ruined before the man turned 25.

 

**_September, 1778_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, Parterre du Midi_ **  
**_Overlooking Les Jardins l'orangerie_ **

The warm sunlight and chirping didn't lift France's mood as he opened and read America's letter for the fifth time.

_'Francey-pants,_

_Hey! How ya doing? George Washington told me you got a new tyrant- I mean King a few years ago! Sorry I missed the excitement, but I was enforcing individual freedoms, and pushing out the oppression and suffocation of my people by Britain and his King. We're a democracy now, France! The Declaration of Independence of the United States of America has been signed! We took back our God-given rights! It. Is. Awesome!_ '

The Enlightenment had gotten to America. "Sure, rub it all in, America," France muttered to himself, grinning as he imagined Washington and l'Amérique sharing ideas with each other in the form of excited shouts and waving extremities. America should be proud. He has a perfectly clean slate to do things however he wants. And he has a supportive King- no wait, President.

_'Sorry. I'm getting off track. You should read some Voltaire, that guy's French, right? Rousseau, Montesquieu, all those guys! They're brilliant! They gave the people, and me, the power to seize what we were born with but denied all this time!'_

France snorted. "' _All those people are French, you walnut! I read them first!_ '" America thought everybody wanted to revolt, now. Just because he built a government based on equality, and fairness, and justice, and the . . . people . . . Hah! As if those writings would ever reach the press anyway! Couldn't get them printed in France so they sent them to l'Amérique . . . France would never get his hands on them and keep them hidden from Louis."

_'Anyway, France, congrats on the new king. I didn't write this letter to attack your form of government. Even though nothing beats the uninhibited, unbridled LIBERTY I kicked Britain's ASS to build! Speaking of Mister Pomp and Circumstance, I've got a little proposition for you! You wanna REALLY sock it to him?!'_

"France?" Louis' voice was right behind France and he jumped. He stood quickly and bumped the table, knocking his wine glass over. France swore as he bowed to Louis, a hilarious combination under other circumstances, then slapped the letter on his chair to mop up the wine with his handkerchief. "What are you reading?"

France quickly put himself between the parchment and his king, waving his hand dismissively. "Nothing important, _Majesté_." Louis could NOT see that letter. That kind of talk was so treasonous France would be executed on the spot. Ah, wait. Louis knew he was immortal. He'd probably send him to Paris and lock him up in La Bastille for the rest of eternity. "It's just a letter from an American friend."

"A friend? Another Nation?"

"Oui."

"What does it say?"

"Nothing special. The Revolution is going well since their Declaration was signed, but he's having a bit of trouble officially driving the British troops from America."

_'Want the chance to shut him up? Come on, France! I know how much you hate Britain! Just send me a couple thousand units and a fleet or two, and you'd have bragging rights for the rest of forever!'_

"He's asking for help," France continued, "but I just don't think-" He looked up and saw that glint in Louis normally fleeting eyes. A cold chill shot down his spine and he shuddered. "Oh, non! _Non, non, non!_ Louis, don't even consider it!"

"Why not, France? Why shouldn't we gain an ally overseas? What is your America like?"

"There are too many problems here in France to go dappling in l'Amérique's affairs! The rising cost of bread, the growing poverty rate, the gap between the rich and the poor. You always forget the biggest problem: MONEY! We have none! And plus, too, I am NOT going to America to fight Britain and leave you here by yourself! You know I'd have to if you sent aid other than money!"

"The taxes can cover it-" he said, rolling past the last of France's points.

"The tax burden is too big already. You'd have to tax the Second Estate."

"I cannot do that!" He looked at France like he grew another head. "I'd lose my support among Parliament-"

" _Vous êtes le Roi_! Parliament is meant to help you, but the decisions rest with you! MY support should be more important to you anyway! I AM France!"

"Stop. Stop. I will bring it up-"

"Oui, to Parliament! _Je sais!_ " France spat at him. He snatched the letter up from the table. "For once could you trust me? Or at least trust your-SELF enough to make your own choices?" he yelled in Louis' face. He didn't wait for Louis' reply, nor did he bow on the way out. That man didn't deserve France's respect.

_'If you can't help I completely understand. I can probably handle this on my own. I'm a free man, after all! I just figured you'd appreciate the chance to slap Britain silly. Talk to your boss about it, okay? I sent a man named Benjamin Franklin to go ask your King too, in addition to asking you personally. The ship back to America leaves a week from its arrival. So whatever time this gets there you have a week! Unless you want to order your own ship to take it back. But that'd be stupid._

_Enjoy the new king! I hope he does a lot of good for France!_

_Au Revoir (Did I spell that right?),_

_Alfred F. Jones; The United States of America_

_and_

_George Washington'_

 

**_Le Château de Versailles, State Apartments_ **  
**_Drawing Room of Plenty_ **

France took his seat at the large conference table next to Louis, but didn't look at him. He unceremoniously put his elbow on the table and pressed his fist into his cheek. The other seats were filled by Parliament members, all looking at him with mixed expressions of amusement (they knew he lost already as much as he did), and pity (he tried so hard to do his job an ended up walked on all the time).

"The subject of sending aid to America has been brought to my attention today. Monsieur Bonnefoy received a letter from an American correspondent, requesting French aid in closing out their Revolution, and sending out the last of the British troops. What is everyone's opinion of this?"

France barely paid attention. He knew what was going to happen anyway. He'd end up being the only 'non' amidst a sea of 'oui's'.

"I think to sum up, we'd say it is a fine idea, _Votre Majesté_."

"' _Of course you do,_ '" France thought bitterly. "' _I'll bet the price hasn't even crossed your minds._ '"

"What a great opportunity to assert our authority in Europe again by crushing what's left of Britain. Then we've got an ally in the colonies. You should impose the tax as soon as possible."

Ah. So they did decide to tax the lower class. France tuned in at the wrong time.

"They're the United States of America now," France corrected him flatly. " _Les États-Unis d'Amérique_." He peeled himself from his slumped position on the table and looked tiredly from face to face. "It's not worth it," he hissed. "If that's all we are to gain, an ally and one measly little point against Britain, it's not worth it. Especially not when we've no financial or economic gain." France rubbed his eyes and shook his head. "Why?" he asked. "Why is it that you think the people can hold France on their backs better than the rich nobles? They're struggling. So if everyone just did a fraction of their part . . . "

Everyone in the room, Louis included, just blinked at France's uncharacteristic display of discontent. France was usually so good at plastering a smile to his face and remaining calm with Louis and Parliament, whether or not things went his way. For once in his immortal life France felt old. Too old, too mature for the group he was forced to associate with.

"I . . . I must think on it," Louis said.

France stood up so fast he knocked his chair over backwards. The last thing he remembered when he woke up the next day was throwing the door to his room open so hard he broke the window on the other side of the room, and uncorking a bottle.

 

 ** _Summer, 1781_**  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_**  
**France's Bedchamber**

As much as France HATED, DESPISED, LOATHED to admit it...

Marie Antoinette threw amazing parties. Plays, jugglers, the best music, the finest wine and food, gambling, dancing, everything.

France hated them. They made him the ultimate hypocrite, criticizing the ridiculousness and frivolity of _le Roi et la Reine_ 's lifestyles, then buying into it and participating like he had nothing to lose either.

France loved them. They were the only things that kept him sane. He could just let EVERYTHING go, tune everything out: the people's pangs of hunger that left him curled up in pain at night; the sounds of gunshots and broken glass from the loots and Bread Riots, so loud in his ears they rung; the whisperings that echoed and bounced around, back and forth, back and forth in his head like he was a madman. They came from the dark corners of the poorest and richest streets and the dimly lit pubs of Paris. The same word over and over again.

_Reform._

_Reform . . ._

_Refo . . ._

_Revol . . ._

_Revolution . . ._

_Revolution._

France could forget all of that. Block all of it out. He could laugh, he could dance, he could eat until he was sick, he could drink- ooooooh, could he drink. The wine just kept coming at the parties, and the fact that it took a LOT more wine to get a Nation drunk was never a problem.

He stepped out of the bath which had long since gone cold, and dried quickly. The maid must have come while he was dozing, he noticed. She already laid out the freshly pressed outfit he ordered. The overcoat and breeches were a lovely, deep, bold-but-beautiful mauve. What completed the outfit, though, was the accent color that was on the vest, trim, and buttons. It was a loud, shocking, blood red, as he requested. He had it specially woven with metallic thread that glowed and shimmered like a ruby when light shone on it. He also got red socks and a red ruff to match.

Good. He wanted to stand out. He wanted to make a statement. He wanted to feel in control of the room for once. That was why he picked the colors.

And, if he got as drunk as he was planning, any wine stains wouldn't show very well.

The French don't drink simply to get drunk. Wine and alcohol were too large of a part of his culture to treat it the way England or America treated it. But at this point, he could think of no other way to ensure the stress went away and he had a good time.

He brushed his luscious, shiny gold waves until they glistened like the sun itself, then he tamed them with a red ribbon. He was NOT going to waste this time away from his strenuous job if it killed him. He was going to enjoy himself, dammit, and he look DAMN good while doing it!

On his way out the door France gave his reflection in the mirror one last glance.

Absolutely stunning. He was ready to turn heads.

He strode to the Hallway of Mirrors with as much confidence and purpose as he could muster. He didn't even wait for the porters to open the door. He worked himself up into a frenzied, almost crazed good mood and no one was stealing his spotlight. Not even la Reine. He threw the doors open as flamboyantly and glamorously as possible and made his big entrance.

He certainly turned heads. The people closest to the doors jumped in surprise from the loud _BANG_ they made against the walls and stared in shocked confusion. Conversations were interrupted. Like a ripple people stopped talking and wondered what everyone else was staring at. When they looked it was mixes of pleasantly surprised awe (from most of the ladies; he DID look fabulous) and indignant glares (from most of the men; how DARE he try and upstage THEM). He heard a wrong note and the quartet abruptly stopped to follow the perpetrator's gaze. The dancers wondered where the music went and glanced around in confusion, finally resting on the obvious disturbance. The servants and maids wondered why their handling of the trays and glasses was the only noise so they stopped too to see the problem. Jaws dropped.

The last to look was who France wanted to see most: Louis and Marie. They were in the back, frozen mid-greeting with some nobleman on his knees.

France grinned widely and deliberately at the royal couple and announced as loudly as possible, " _Mon Roi et Ma Reine, s'il vous plaît, excuses mon retard_!"

He crossed the room as quickly as possible, purposefully meeting eyes with as many people as possible. Their stares made him feel substantial and alive, like something was going his way for once.

He stopped in front of the queen's seat. She had on one of her ridicule headpieces, but France could see in her face she knew who stole the glory from this battlefield. The man who was greeting her when France walked in still held her hand, dumbfounded, staring at France. He just cleared his throat and shooed him away. He took her hand instead and pulled her forward in her seat as he knelt. Planting a swift kiss to her knuckle, he made a split-second decision and slowly rose from his crouch to extend her whole arm and send kisses to her wrist, forearm, and just below her elbow. She awkwardly laughed and ripped her arm from his grip, unsure of what else to do. He straightened up and smiled like nothing was wrong.

"Oh, la-la- a year after your first child's birth, and you managed to keep your lovely shape, _Majestée_! You look magnifique!"

As he moved to the King his Nation hearing picked up the roar of whispers that rose up. "The nerve! Who does he think he is?" "How rude! What's wrong with him?" "What's with that ridiculous outfit?" And one that remained his personal favorite for years and years, "Is he already drunk?"

The King sized him up, trying to decide whether France was being blatantly rude or obliviously cheerful, and whether or not France would embarrass him too. France smugly decided to keep him guessing. He simply bowed to Louis, much to everyone's relief, but gestured the servant over and grabbed two glasses. Thinking one was for him, Louis reached out, but France went bottoms up on the first and chugged about half the second right in front of him.

Aah, the rich, dark Lafite Rothschild Pauillac. 1764. Silky, a tint of mint, amidst the earthy, spicy, fresh taste of subtle fruit. And boxwood. Fine intensity. He smacked his lips and nodded his approval.

"I never-" Marie started incredulously, but Louis silenced her with a hand.

France realized he was off the hook and spun on the string quartet. "'Ey! _Qu'est-ce que c'est?! Où est la musique? Les dansons?! Allez! Allez_!" he yelled. They scrambled for a moment to reset their sheet music before the cheery music began again, and he finally took his leave of center stage. For the time being.

 

Elevens! France's chest swelled with pride and he hungrily scooped up his winnings, close to 5,000 livres! That was more than what was in France's treasury! A crazed, sort of sarcastic laugh bubbled up in France's chest and died on his lips, turning into a sneer. He snapped and another glass was in his hand within 30 seconds. If he but won again . . .

 

 _Merde_. France watched his opponent, a rather fat and disgusting man, drag his bigger pile of money to his side of the table. "I win!"

France didn't need those 15,239 livres anyway.

Another two glasses empty.

 

He had nothing left in his pockets to buy in with. He left the table empty-handed and looked for the wine trays.

"I've never seen anyone drink that much and still be alive," he heard Marie whisper to one of her courtiers. France glanced at Marie in her ridiculous clothes and flashed her a knowing grin. She must've forgot he had heightened hearing. Her cheeks immediately colored and her entourage giggled loudly at the irony that he would actually look right at that moment. Swirling his glass, he took a sip of his wine, elegantly this time, and winked to the pretty girl next to la Reine over the glass.

She was more than pretty, she was beautiful. Eyes big, brown, and full of adventure, brown hair pinned modestly up. Sharp nose, and slender face. Pink dress. Gorgeous. Even in her plain clothes she outshone Marie.

They held eye contact and he raised an eyebrow seductively to her, turning on _le charme à la Française_. He had an entrancing effect on the women of his country. He couldn't help it. The girl stared, open-mouthed, a blush on her elegant cheeks, until Marie elbowed her out of her stupor.

God, how long had it been since he even kissed a woman? Passionately, lovingly, kissed a woman? Following Louis around like a parent to an immature child left little room for pleasure.

He'd have to remedy that.

It was around his 10th (or 15th? Maybe? Who cared?) glass of wine, right as he was starting to feel the buzz in his brain and a more than a little bit at ease and woozy, that he decided to abandon suggestive glances and pay that pretty girl a visit. He passed a servant on his way over and deposited his glass on the tray. First bowing clumsily to the queen, he then stood over the girl on her plush couch.

"May I have your hand, Mademoiselle?" he said sweetly, as sickly-sweet as the red wine he could still taste in his throat, offering his arm to her.

She blushed so deeply he thought she was going to pass out, but she ended up smiling back and looping her arm in his. He led her out to the open area where there were other groups of people dancing in their own elegant and proper way. An Italian Pavane. That wouldn't do. His intrusion on the dance floor garnered him some even more dirty looks, but France pushed his way through the glares and people alike, knocking men into their partners and causing mis-steps left and right.

" _Non, non, non!_ " he yelled to the quartet, clapping to them to get their attention. "Something lively, something French! A Gigue, perhaps?"

People's heads snapped in his direction so fast he was amazed they were still alive. Gigues were not court dances. They were jumpy, with a lot of mimicking each other. Who cared? France should be allowed to do what he wanted every once in a while, he decided. Like get absolutely smashed and dance avec une belle Mademoiselle.

No one else joined them on the dance floor while they waited for the music to begin, and as France watched her, he could tell she was uncomfortable and embarrassed. She glanced around the room constantly and the redness in her cheeks wouldn't go away. He slid his arm from hers and reached down to clasp both her hands in his.

"Just follow my lead," he told her, staring deeply into her chestnut eyes.

She seemed to relax a bit and he bowed to her. She returned the favor and the dance began.

Every twist, every turn, every jump, every glance, he made sure to pull her closer than propriety would allow. Despite his cognitive lag, he was able to maintain a beautifully coordinated dance with her, only almost falling once.

Somehow, she was more intoxicating than the wine.

 

He bowed, and the dance was over. They smiled at each other and he pulled her into gentle hug, whispering smoothly in her ear, " _Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle. Tu es une magnifique danseuse_." He chuckled to himself when he saw her goosebumps. He grabbed three glasses off the nearest servant, but one was for her. She took it and with a cock of his head he led her off to a less-populated part of the room.

They chatted insignificantly, drinking more and more (25+ glasses for him). They talked for what was hours, their conversation ranging from wine-induced, giggly, silliness to sincere and honest confessions, experiences, and opinions, many of which they shared, and . . . just everything in-between. Her name was Richelle. She was as modest as a noblewoman could get. She wasn't vain, she wasn't shallow, she wasn't ostentatious. She was . . . beauty. She was passion. She was . . . the closest he'd been to someone since . . . he couldn't even remember.

When their eyes both glistened from the alcohol and neither of them remembered what they were doing anymore he leaned in and kissed her. Their soft, red-stained lips pressed together tenderly, with no urgency or hesitation. He closed his eyes, and for a moment everything he ever wanted to escape from was gone, whisked away. He was back to the old France. Carefree, love-struck, happy France. Not starving, rioting, pathetic, irritated, peon France. There was only him and her, and the wine. Before he knew it she pulled away to nestle her face into his neck and press kisses there, but the connection was broken. It all came rushing back. The people, the staring, the whispering, the problems. . .

He shook her gently, kissing her lips when she looked up. " _Want to get out of here?_ " he whispered.

She smiled and nodded, and he helped her up. By then neither of them could really walk, so they staggered and stumbled and giggled loudly through the corridors, getting lost more than once.

Until they finally reached France's room.

He was shrugging off his coat before she even shut the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**_November, 1781_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, Queen's Apartments_ **  
**_State Cabinet_ **

Louis strode towards the Parliamentary meeting with an irritable France in tow.

"Why's this meeting all the way in the Queen's Apartments?" he whined.

"Because I want it to be," Louis grumbled.

"But the drawing room really close to my room was doing fine."

"France," he sighed. "Stop."

"So, are you planning on getting anything done today? Or are you going to have to 'think on' every single thing that's brought up again, hm?" France asked him, quickening his pace to walk backwards facing Louis, hands clasped behind his back.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Louis asked as equally irritably back.

"Oh, nothing, nothing." France said knowingly. Louis glared at him.

"France, if you start another fight with Parliament today . . . "

"Oh! Non, non, non, _mon ami_ , I will be on my best behavior!" Lately, France had found out why sarcasm was Britain's fail-safe for everything. "In fact, I won't even have to speak! You don't listen to me, anyway, so there's no reason for me to try and appeal anything to you!"

"You better get rid of that attitude problem you've developed, and quickly. I don't know what's come over you lately since the party, but . . . " They reached the conference room and France held the door open for Louis. Before he entered, the King turned back and stared hard at France. "No matter. It's all behind us. I just want you to know that I have France's interests at heart. I hope you can forgive me."

That statement was so out of context and sincere that it knocked the sass right out of France's mind. "Wait, what?" he asked. "What are you doing? What does that mean?"

Louis turned his back on France and walked into the meeting, waving to the lords to sit down. As soon as Louis took his place at the head of the table, a paper was handed to him. He cleared his throat heavily, like he was going to begin some loud, riveting, and powerful speech, then spoke softly. "The subject of a sanction to the advisor Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy has been brought to the Parliamentary table today. The members of Parliament and myself, King Louis XVI, have all met in secret to discuss the behavior and attitude of Monsieur Bonnefoy. His conduct at court has been less than exemplary, as displayed by the utter and complete lack of social etiquette, over consumption of wine at social gatherings, constant sexual advances on multiple women and men at court, and lack of respect shown to his king and queen, Louis XVI and Marie Antionette, in both public and private settings."

"What is this?" France asked nervously, glancing around the table. All of Parliament was staring at him, victimizing him, belittling him with their haughty glares, and suddenly he felt small. Very small. So he was right to think Louis was detaching from him.

"Furthermore, examining his stances on all manner of political affairs, the extent and manner with which he disagrees, venturing as far as to purposefully cause rifts and fights among Parliament-"

" _Ça n'est pas vrai_!" he yelled, " _Je n'ai jamais déclenché de dispute_!"

Louis glared at him, but continued reading, " . . . has led His Royal Majesy Louis XVI to rethink his position as advisor. He constantly argues with the King, Louis XVI's judgements, criticizes all political decisions and actions, and is a hinderance to King and country. The rumors and discontent his presence causes at court is a further hinderance to everyone that resides there."

"What rumors?" France questioned. He could feel his face heating from embarrassment- embarrassment! France was actually embarrassed!

"For one, there are rumors circulating that you are a raging drunk, even going to the point of ignoring His and Her Majesty to indulge yourself and get dead drunk in your room!" a Parliament member began.

France's face fell. Ok, so that was only partially true. He would at least do what was asked of him, even if he was drunk. "So somebody has twisted facts! You want to fire me for it?"

"It is said that half the cellar at Versailles is emptied every day at your hands!" someone else accused. "All the money goes to replenishing the stock!"

Not true at ALL! It was a little less than half! France fumed, too shocked at this blatant attack to even begin to defend himself.

"And the last and most prominent one," Louis began like he was spreading the juicy gossip himself. "It is rumored that he's fathered at least ten children to Marie's courtiers."

"Oh please, are you that naïve to think it could not possibly be any one of these men?" he said, gesturing wildly around the table. "I've heard and seen NOTHING to prove that!" He immediately regretted that. More sass wasn't the answer right then.

"You see, _Votre Majesté?_ " someone asked him. "This is exactly the kind of attitude we want away from you. You don't need him next to you, burdening you. You don't need this kind of man leading you astray."

France laughed incredulously, but sat back in his chair, defeated. He knew he wasn't going to defend himself well enough for them, no matter what points he brought up. Why not the sass, then? "Are you all just upset because nothing, literally, nothing has been passed since the 'Aiding America' disaster? Are you looking for a scapegoat? Is that what this is?" Panic began to surface, shallowing his breath and making him squirm and sweat in his pretty blue outfit. The room felt like it was spinning, collapsing in on him. Paranoia swept in. How long had they been targeting him? He needed to get out.

He got up on shaky legs to make his way to the door, but Louis stopped him. "Don't you DARE walk out of this, Francis!" he screamed. France paused where he was, but didn't turn back. Louis flapped the page so it would stand up in his hand and continued reading. "As a result, Parliament and I, King Louis XVI, have decided that we do not want someone whose focus isn't on France interfering with the political process. Francis Bonnefoy is to be removed from the position as King's advisor. He shall be allowed to remain at Court, but not participate any longer in political, social, or financial reformatory actions."

Francis Bonnefoy, the fancy and fashionable aristocrat, understood completely. He was out of line, on all accounts. He admit it. He knew of his mistakes. Everyone did. But he had hit the point where he cared about as much as Louis. How was he supposed to apologize for that? Who apologized for having a good time, a bit of fun, a good, hearty laugh, with or without females? He didn't even feel bad enough to apologize.

Francis the nobleman understood. France the Nation, on the other hand, was livid.

He spun around to face Louis, laughing loudly in his face. In retrospect, it wasn't his best career move. Laughing at the very man who controlled his essence. But he laughed, whirling around Louis and glaring him full in the face, challenging him to a battle of wills, right there. He knew what his gaze looked like; he'd seen it thousands of times in the cold glares of the other Nations: the weight of hundreds of years, the weight of forever, etched into the chasms and mountains of blue in his irises that dipped into the pools of infinity that were his pupils. He screamed the question in his mind out through his eyes, he put all that weight into it, and he was SURE Louis heard it. _Who could be more focused on France than the EMBODIMENT OF FRANCE?! HUH?!_ He spread his arms and his smile wide, not breaking eye contact, and said, "Well at the rate your reign's going, Louis, who wouldn't yell ' _allez vous faire voir_ ' and just ride the carriage wreck?" For dramatic effect he spun around, looking around the otherwise empty room for the group of people he was metaphorically referring to.

He expected people to gasp. He expected people to scoff, to cover their mouths with their hands, to shout, to do something. But everybody froze. Everybody froze and everything became deathly quiet. Settling his gaze back on Louis, he maintained his challenge, crystalline blue intimidating and beating down soft grayish-blue until they submitted, and Louis looked away.

"Remove him," the King called softly, motioning for the guards. "From here on out he is not to return to another meeting!" The guards grabbed his widespread arms and forced them painfully behind his back, marching him roughly out. They tossed him to the floor and shut the doors behind them, locking his King and future away from him.

Thinking back, he wasn't sure what exactly made him say that clear insult and challenge to Louis, but one thing he was sure about was:

He regretted nothing.

He didn't regret the partying, the sass, the attempts to push Louis towards reconstruction. He didn't even regret saying "fuck you" to the King of France. His King. Embarrassing him like he did France.

Those stupid rumors were probably started by Parliament members to ruin his reputation and credibility at court and with Louis, too! Well, it worked. Bâtards. They got the whole entire palace whispering, and Louis detached himself from France.

He ran a hand through his hair, watching the strands slip through his fingers like he knew France was slipping through both his and Louis' hands. He was losing himself.

There was wine to be drunk and problems to forget.

 

 **_December, 1781_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, Queen's Private Chambers_ **  
**_Marie's Bedchamber_ **

Louis' son, a perfectly healthy and absolutely adorable baby boy, Louis-Charles, was born. (Finally, it seemed like Louis' bed was being put to more use than France's.) France should've been happy - the people should've been happy! If only for the tradition of the thing. But even as France watched Marie cuddle the little, squirming, beautiful bundle from the doorway, he couldn't shake the indigestion.

 

 **_January, 1782_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartment_ **  
**_France's Bedchamber_ **

France staggered back to his room from another party, but it wasn't from the wine. Completely doubled over, his angry stomach growling and howling and protesting. With each ticking second he could feel his barren stomach painfully shrink more and more in starvation. He pushed the doors open with his back so he wouldn't have to move them from his abdomen and collapsed on his bed, writhing and crying out as the pain intensified when he tried to curl in on himself.

The winter was brutal. No matter how much he ate at Versailles, France was still starving. No matter how many blankets he ordered each night, France still felt the frostbite.

 

 **_February, 1782_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, State Apartments_ **  
**_Venus Drawing Room_ **

 

 

_'¡Hola, mi amigo!_

_Sorry to bother you if you're really busy, but me and Prussia haven't heard from you in a while. We miss our trio! America says you haven't been answering him, either. Romano and I just wanted to check up on you and say hola, and make sure everything was ok, because we're a little worried about you! I understand if you're busy, but even if you are you can take a minute out of your day to answer this, right? I'll spread the word to the others, too. Just in case you don't get this, I'm telling Canada to write to you, too. Maybe he'll be able to slip a letter past England. Again, sorry to bother if you're really busy. Just get back to us, ok?'_

_Espero que todo está bien,_

_Antonio Fernandez Carriedo; El Reino de España_

_P.S. Romano told me to send some tomatoes over! Tomatoes make everything better! Expect a package in a week, ok?'_

Four months, and he hadn't attended a meeting.

So here he was, pacing outside the door to the conference room under guarded supervision. Now he regretted it. Louis grew cold and distant, like Parliament told him to stop talking to him completely. They never told France anything anymore. He was almost completely in the dark about political affairs besides what he could get out of Marie's courtiers, which wasn't much.

What did they talk about in there? Did Louis stand his ground?

It was difficult to get his hopes up. . . Because Louis wised up and realized things like that were bad ideas, but had no idea what to do in place. So he became stagnant. Too hesitant to do something on his own, too unwilling to jump into Parliamentary decisions, too ashamed to turn back to France for help. Odds were nothing would get done. The only changes would be that the people grew hungrier and the cost of flour would go up again.

There was just . . . too much diversity. The royal government included too many divisions and subdivisions, too many different standards, agents, methods (most of which France ignored with the exception being the Versailles Parliament). His institutions were a mess, in shambles. Chaos and disorder assembled into a system of no systems.

On the other side of this stomach-cramping, energy-draining paradox, he was having trouble not getting his hopes up. Maybe Louis would finally put his foot down on something, since he technically had the final say. Maybe he'd do something, anything, just to vindicate that one last shred of faith France had and prove he wasn't totally incompetent.

France heard scuffling on the other side of the guards, so they stepped aside as the doors opened. France went to go right to Louis but the guards blocked him until the King and Parliament members passed. He didn't even acknowledge France. Parliament did, however, and a lot of them looked too smug for France's comfort. What went on in there? France tried to not let his fear and anxiety show to them. The guards moved after the whole group passed, and France followed behind them until Louis broke away to go to his chambers.

France ran to catch Louis. "Well?" he asked eagerly. "How did it go? What did you discuss?"

This was the first time he even approached Louis since he was led out of the meeting. Louis continued his four month long silent treatment.

"Oh come on, you cannot still be mad! I apologized months ago! Profusely! I've apologized since then, too!"

Nothing.

"I didn't really mean it, Louis-"

"France, you are to address me as ' _Votre Majesté_ ,' ' _Majesté_ ,' or ' _Mon Roi_ ,' with the proper respect I deserve. No more of this 'Louis' nonsense. I am your King. Treat me as such." Crap. He was still mad.

France was silent in shock of Louis' authoritative tome. It wasn't like him. Louis glared down at France and for once, just once, their eyes met and Louis didn't look away. It was France who crumbled. " _O-oui, Majesté_."

"What's more is you will be France unless we are in public. I rarely refer to you as Monsieur Bonnefoy, but we will use proper titles with each other. I am not your ami. I am your monarch."

" _Oui, Majesté_. How . . . how did the meeting go? What was discussed?"

"That is none of your business anymore."

"None of my-" he began loudly, but swallowed it down. Louis wanted him in the dark. So be it. He couldn't stop him. "I . . . I see."

France retreated a step behind Louis but still followed him to his chambers, hoping uselessly that Louis would decide to indulge him. He was disappointed. "I'll just . . . leave you to your thoughts then, _Majesté_." He bowed and turned to go, but Louis' command halted him.

"Wait!" France turned. "We need to talk."

France swallowed.

Louis held the door open for him and France warily strode past him into Louis' room. Louis didn't speak for a long time. France didn't either for fear of upsetting him further.

"France," he said finally. France jumped in spite of himself. "I want you to leave court and return to your château in Paris."

" _Ex-excusez-moi, Majesté_?"

"I said I want you to return to Paris." No, France heard right. No. No! This was not happening! He couldn't go to Paris! Not now! Things were too bad! Louis was too stupid! He could not - COULD NOT - leave Louis alone with Parliament-

Aaah. So that was why they looked so smug. He was the topic of the meeting.

France's spine seized. This was his worst nightmare. Totally leaving France in the hands of those people. His legs went numb. He had to sit before he passed out. He collapsed into a chair against the wall, jaw opening and closing repeatedly as he tried to come up with some defense. "You can't-" No, he couldn't order the King to do anything. It'd only make him angry, anyway. "But you need me here-" No, no he didn't. Parliament sufficed according to Louis. "You'll ruin France on your own-" Oh sure, France, insult him more! Good plan!

Louis continued in France's silence. "Quite frankly, France, you've turned into more of a nuisance. With nothing to do, you're no better than a courtier! Drinking all the wine and reaping all the benefits of living here. From your continued misconduct at court and impropriety, to the blatant disrespect you continually show me . . . you're a hinderance. I neither want your opinion anymore, nor desire your presence. You've no further use here at court. Not only that, but you're fatigued. You're not thinking straight lately. I suspect some time to yourself will allow you to recharge, rethink yourself. I suggest you take this leave of absence as a good thing. The time away will do you much good."

" _Non, non, non, Votre Maj-_ "

"You know what? Don't even start. I don't even want to hear what you have to say. You are to return to Paris tomorrow. I've already ordered your coach. I suggest you pack your things tonight."

"B-but," he sputtered. "For how long?"

" . . . As long as I want you away," Louis decided. "But right now, you need the time away, and I need the time to myself."

'To myself', like France was some pest. For doing his job as the National Personification of the Kingdom of France, and trying to make France, his country, his people, his land, the best he could.

Rational thought wasn't working too well for France at the moment, so the next closest thing surfaced: anger.

"Oh! Oh, I see! Fine! Excuse me for 'bothering' you with France's real problems! Excuse me for laying the solutions at your FEET, only to have you walk all over them like I don't know how to fix my own COUNTRY! FORGIVE ME if I WON'T let you RUIN France by not rolling over and easily letting you do what THEY want! PARDONNEZ-MOI for trying to rid myself of the HEADACHE that has assaulted my TEMPLES since 1774! Je suis TRÈS desolé for trying to be the ruler you CAN'T be!"

France was close to going on a one-way trip to La Bastille if that last comment didn't do it. If he was leaving court anyway, he had nothing to lose. France stood quickly, pointing his finger at Louis. " _Si tu ne veux pas de moi ici, soit!_ I'm gone! But you BETTER start forming your own opinions and stick with them to get anything done, instead of letting them sway you into insecurity. And when Parliament disagrees with you and abandons you, don't you DARE come back to me! I'll probably be dying anyway because of you, one way or another. You wonder why I'm exhausted? Why I look like I'm teetering on the edge of collapse? Look at FRANCE! Look at YOURSELF!"

Through France's outburst, Louis controlled his reaction well, which both impressed France and frustrated him beyond words.

"Get out of my sight, France. Pack your things for tomorrow, and be outside at 8:00 a.m."

" _Oui, Votre Majesté_ ," he growled between his teeth. He stiffly bowed and left.

Back in his room he stopped at the mirror to see how 'tired' he really looked. Stupid Louis. He was France. He always looked beautiful. But when he meet eyes with his reflection he was actually shocked by his appearance. His normally bright, mesmerizing, crystal blue eyes were dull and dead and empty beyond recognition. A slight black ring decided to plant and take root around both of them, making him look as exhausted as he honestly felt. He pulled the ribbon out of his hair and let his hair, his beautiful, beautiful hair, flow down his shoulders, but it had lost its fluff and shine, like the sun gave up on it. The lively bounce in his curls was gone as well. His hair lay flatly, lifelessly, against his head. How long had he been this pale and sickly looking?

Rage bubbled in his heart. His fingers curled around the vanity counter so hard his nails bit into the wood. he wanted to break something. Stab someone. So badly he had to brace himself against the wood. His fists shook. A jolt of fury stabbed through him, radiating from his chest down his spine.

It was Louis' fault.

He ripped the mirror and what had become of him, his people, his country, from the wall. He gave himself one more glance, and in those dead eyes he saw pain, fury, resignation, power, resolution, ambition, passion. France would not die. He lifted it over his head with a cry and threw it to the floor. It shattered on impact, glass scattering everywhere throughout the room, skittering across the floor, or glinting in the air before clattering to the marble floor. It littered the room, and France walked over it, crunching and grinding it into the floor to get to his armoir. He had packing to do, after all.

He hated him.

He hated Louis.

France. Would. Not. Die.

 

 **_May, 1783_ **  
**_Marais, Paris - 3rd Arrondissement_ **

There was always at least one perk to being shunned.

The perk of the first year was that he was home. His home was Paris. His heart was Paris. Living in Versailles since 1682 almost made him forget what home felt like.

The hooves of horses and the rattle of coach wheels on the cobblestones were a constant and familiar backdrop to the noises of life, the bustle of the people. They were talking, shouting greetings, kissing cheeks; the children were laughing; the drunks were celebrating loudly in the taverns; the wives were screaming at their husbands; the shop owners were shouting orders to their workers; if he was out at the right time _les dames de la nuit_ called to him, giggling and blowing kisses (some of which he called back to) . . .

All around France was noise. The kid of positive noise you enjoy just by existing and experiencing it. Energy. He drank it all in like a fine wine.

Of course, he was referring to the richer, better off parts of the city. The 5th through 9th districts, where his home was and where a majority of the bourgeoisie owned estates, but still.

They were France's people.

After 101 years, he was home.

He spent all of his time walking the streets. He surrounded and immersed himself in Parisian life. He felt secure, encompassed by the cramped and crowded buildings and narrow rues. They were all around him, they hugged him close along with the sights and smells: a mix of bread, sweet wines, and slight sewage. Absolutely charming.

Just BEING in Paris, experiencing the essence of France and the people was more comforting and revitalizing than he could even express, physically or emotionally. Being at court DID take a lot more out of him than he recognized. Or maybe it was a capital thing? Maybe these feelings were why the Nations who lived in their capitals with their bosses seemed better off emotionally than those who didn't. England was an exception. That insufferable swine would always be miserable no matter where he was. Either way, France just felt better. He sort of forgot about his festering hatred for Louis. No matter what the people felt, he was overjoyed to be home.

Yes, for the first year, living in Paris was a blessing. His relief and the immediate rush of wholeness and satisfaction and peace that swelled in his heart was enough to cover up everything else.

They physical aspects of economic depression.

 

 **_July, 1783_ **  
**_Marais, Paris_  - _3rd Arrondissement_**  
**_France's Château_ **

_They wrenched his hands behind his back, jamming his clenched fists painfully into the small of his back. He eked out a squeak of pain, and they forced him to his knees, stepping on his ankles until they bound his hands. His shoulders screamed in pain, and as soon as they were done he relaxed them. For a second. They pulled him to his feet by his ponytail and shoved him roughly out the jail doors into the open sunlight. The harsh light hurt his eyes but when he went to shield them he wrenched his bound hands and jarred his strained shoulders. They shoved him forward when he tried to withdraw back into the shadows._

_That was about as substantial as he felt. A shadow. A phantom. He wasn't France anymore. No one was France. Mass chaos, total anarchy, THAT was France._

_They pushed him towards the stage, and as the crowd parted, throwing the bread they didn't eat and the crops that didn't grow at him, he saw it on the platform. The prized possession of France. They symbol of the anarchy. The guillotine._

_He choked back his defeated sob, but his heart took a nose-dive into his stomach and his knees wouldn't hold him anymore. They were going to kill him. He was going to die. They still managed to lift him up, and suddenly he was standing there on the stage. He looked to the faces in the crowd, looked for anyone he could appeal to, anyone who would help him. "Please!" he screamed to nobody in particular. "Please, someone help me!" He was drowned out by the crowd. He tried to run off the stage, jump into the crowd and get away, but the guards held his arms tight, forcing him to another knee instead. He continued to desperately search, and in a section of the crowd he saw people he recognized._

_Angleterre. Other nations, too: America, Spain, Prussia, Austria, Russia, China, Belgium, Netherlands, to name a few. "Britain!" he screamed, relief flushing through him. "Help me! Please!" Britain didn't react. His face remained stone cold. All of them did. No one would help._

_He was completely alone. Oh, God, he was going to die. They were going to kill him._

_Someone else grabbed his ponytail and with a swift flick of the knife his hair was sheared away. The cold breeze hit his neck, blowing straight through his dirty, thread-bare shirt, making him shudder. The chill of cold, endless, spiraling death. There was no escaping it. All hope was gone. His breath started coming in short, gasping breaths and he heard laughing above him, coming from the blade of the guillotine. Laughing at his peril. Laughing at his helplessness. He released the cry he tried to hold in and tears streamed down his faces they stood him up and flattened him to the board, tightening the straps around his back. His ponytail they tossed into the crowd, and they ripped it apart, holding strands of it up and screaming in joy at the souvenir they would take. They tipped him over, and his chin smacked off the board when it hit the bed of the machine._

_They slid him forward, inch by slow, painful inch, letting his tears wet the basket beneath him, and mix with the bloodstains._

_Someone else's blood tainted the wood. It was still warm, and smeared on his neck when they placed him under the blade. Coppery smell, slick and gross on him. They clamped his head in place with the top securing board around his neck._

_SSCCCHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR- THUNK!_

France shot awake in the middle of the night feeling like America was punching him in the stomach.

Well, ok, that was an exaggeration. He woke up only feeling something wasn't right. He immediately chalked it up to the nightmare, although it felt like more than a cold sweat. Being a Nation, when those kinds of warnings came and those kinds of alarm bells rang, it didn't matter what you thought it was. You didn't question them. You got ready for something to hurt.

France didn't get ready fast enough, or well enough.

"' _Oh, boy, what is it now?_ '" he thought groggily, roughly rubbing his eyes and neck where the guillotine cut into him, embarrassingly thankful that he was, indeed, alive despite knowing it was all a sick dream. "' _Probably some new bill Parliament talked Louis into-'_ Ow!" he squeaked suddenly. A stab of pain punched into his stomach like knife. He sat up on the edge of his bed and curled up, but it almost made it feel worse. He flopped back onto his bed and tossed and turned, trying to find some position that would relieve him in any way.

He never found it.

"' _Wh-why?_ " he thought. " _Why is this-_ " And then it hit him. Literally. He couldn't even breathe when the next pang hit, and France curled up tighter, despite the whopping nothing it did for the pain. Oh. Now he remembered.

There was kind of a crisis going on. People were starving. These pains were theirs. His stomach hurt again along with the 90% of the Third Estate. They couldn't even afford flour, let alone bread. France knew it wouldn't go away until Louis acted.

He could feel himself beginning to sweat an actual, sickly sweat, so he raised his hand to his forehead only to realize he was trembling. Either way he could tell he was running a fever. He tried to roll out of bed, but as soon as he moved his stomach regretted it instantly. He curled back up, face twisting in pain.

 

 **_October, 1783_ **  
**_Marais, Paris - 3rd Arrondissement_ **  
_**France's Château**_

The people were holding another riot. He could feel it. He could tell the morning it was going to happen. He was too exhausted to get out of bed for the whole day, and he waited in tense, paranoid, anxiousness for the pain to start. The bruises from the businesses and people they destroyed and killed. Thankfully, none marred his beautiful face, but they were still tender.

He had mood swings that would sometimes lead into fevers every time the poorer sections of the city held on of their illegal rallies in the streets. These bouts turned into the new constant. Sweaty, achy, chilled shivers. Since he was closer, much, much closer to the discontent.

For about a month after the start of it in July it floored him until he found a way to mentally detach a bit in August. He withdrew to the inside of his chateau. He stopped seeing the people. He stopped enjoying Paris. He cut himself off from the strolls, the wines, the laughter, even the women. He stopped the humanity of living in Paris and stopped feeling the negative effects of Louis' blind eyes turning away. At least a little bit. It never fully stopped, and some days were better than others, but if he just didn't move, didn't react, didn't THINK, the brunt of it was pushed somewhere deep inside of him, where he could bury it and manage to function a little.

The ONE person who he continued to see without fail was the royal courier. Louis sent letters to him every day since the pain started in July.

And then the ONE perk shifted. For the second year, the perk was ignoring Louis.

The first letter he ever received said:

 

 

_'Francis,_

_I hope this letter reaches you well in Paris. I also hope you are enjoying your time off-'_

France stopped reading. This wasn't just some vacation he took to have fun and enjoy himself! And even if it was he certainly wasn't enjoying it. He dragged his fatigued body over to the fireplace, bracing himself on the carved marble against a head rush and a wave of dizziness.

He threw the letter into the fire.

The one he bothered to open this October read:

 

 

_'Francis,_

_I hope this letter reaches you well in Paris.'_

He always began his letters to France like that. Like nothing was wrong.

 

_'It's been a little over a year and four months now since you've been away from court, and-'_

'Away from court?' Like he left of his own volition. Louis was too cowardly to admit his mistake, even in letter form. What a pansy. What a coward.

Into the fire.

 

 **_November, 1783_ **  
**_Marais, Paris - 3rd Arrondissement_**  
**_France's Château_ **

 

 

_'Francis,_

_I hope this letter reaches you well in Paris. My other notes don't seem to be, judging from your lack of correspondence. Although, the courier tells me a "handsome blond fellow" answers the door. Handsome and blond are adjectives that suit you, but I'll have to get a check on your château's address.'_

The sarcasm he detected in Louis' pen almost made France crush the glass of water in his hands. He swore he would neither read nor reply to the letters until an apology was in the first few sentences, and an on-the-knees-plea for him to come back was transcribed into the next one. But this was downright rude. The bâtard would have to swallow his pride or cowardice, whichever applied here, and apologize. For his mistake, for Parliament, either one would suffice for France. Not even flattery was going to make him crack.

Into the fire.

 

 **_February, 1784_ **  
**_Marais, Paris - 3rd Arrondissement_ **  
**_France's Château_ **

France was too sick to get up and answer the door. The knock set his headache roaring, and he contemplated tearing that stupid brass knocker off the door. His bedroom was around a few corners and right at the top of the stairs, but his door was open and his house was large. His weak, quavering voice echoed to the man in the foyer when he called the courier in.

"Hello?" he called hesitantly into the house. "U-ummm, _j'ai une lettre pour vous, Monsieur_ ," he yelled.

France wiped the sweat from his brow and threw the thick, heavy fleece blankets off of himself. Unfortunately, as soon as his body was bare he became instantly, furiously, freezing cold. Hot UNDER the covers, cold OUT of them. The touch of the blankets made him ache, he shivered without them. He sat up slowly to try and spare himself the dizzy spell, but it still crept up his back and into his head so fast blackness spotted his vision and the room swam and spun into an unidentifiable blur.

" _S'il vous plaît_ , b-bring it up to me," he called back, as loud as his head would allow. "First bedroom at the top of the stairs. _P-pardonnez-moi_ , but I'm not decent." His bare chest and back were shiny with sweat, and all he had on were breeches. He ran a hand through his knotted, sweat-slicked hair and curled a blanket around is shoulders. It didn't help the rest of him, or his shivers, but it was a little better.

France saw the courier's head clear the top of the stairs so he said, "In here, Monsieur."

The man took one look at him and paled. France realized he must look really bad.

" _Est- . . . Est-ce que vous êtes Monsieur Bonnefoy? Sa Majesté_ , Louis XVI, bid me ask you."

The courier asked him something. France just wanted him to hand over the letter so he could lay back down. When a question surfaced, France wasn't even paying attention. "Pardon?"

"Are you Monsieur Bonnefoy?"

" _Oui, j'en ai bien peur_. Forgive my appearance, but as you can see, I am not well."

"I'm sorry to see you so sick, sir," the courier awkwardly said, stuck between formality of duty and care for another human being. "I . . . um . . . I have a letter for you."

France took the letter and collapsed back onto his pillow. He went to work trying to break the seal, but his hands were shaking. He couldn't get a solid grip on the lip.

"Would you like some help?"

"Non, non, _je peux le faire_ ," France said. His tongue protruded from his lips, the show of how much concentration he was putting into such a simple task. He jabbed his thumb into the slit and pried, but his other hand was shaking too badly. His thumb slipped and the parchment gave him a superficial paper cut that was the bane of his existence.

" _Merde!_ " he yelled.

The courier flinched, but pulled an envelope knife from his bag. "May I?" France handed the letter back and he sliced through Louis' seal with ease. He made a move to have it back.

"Ah! Non, just read it to me."

"Oui, Monsieur.

 

 

_'Francis,_

_'I hope this letter reaches you well in Paris. I understand if you do not want to correspond while you are taking your leave, but frankly, this utter refusal to answer my letters is becoming childish-'"_

"Stop," France told him. " _Arrêtez_. Burn that. Right now."

"But I haven't finished-"

" _Je sais_. Burn it anyway."

The courier did as he was told, then turned back to France. "Monsieur, can I get you anything? A cold towel for your face? Some water? Extra blankets? I could call on a doctor for you."

"Non, non, that's quite alright." Human treatments didn't help a Nation anyway. Their maladies were directly linked to national happenings. "I'll be alright-" He cut off to cough. Well that was a new development. That was the first time he ever coughed because of a bad time period. Oh, God, if his people had pneumonia . . .

The courier looked skeptical, but France waved him off. "I suggest you go. _Merci beaucoup_."

" _Je vous en prie._ " He left.


	4. Chapter 4

**_September, 1784_ **  
**_Marais, Paris - 3rd Arrondissement_**  
**_France's Château_ **

As he adjusted and resigned himself to his foreseeable future of pain, it began to change. Things seemed to come to France in weekly waves.

-The stomach aches. Always first. Days on end. Building inside of him until he screamed, cried, threw up. One, or any combination, of the three. Add dizziness, irritability, fatigue, weakness, achiness . . . He was mentally decaying with them. Physically he looked gaunt and grey. He couldn't keep food down. He was dehydrated. National alarm bells tolled day in and day out for him, for his body, for France, ringing in his ears, a constant and unnecessary reminder that if nothing changed soon . . . or maybe they were death knells. Who knew? Who cared?

-The tension built day by day until it was released in a short, fulminating burst of a Bread Riot. Or an estate-looting. Or a lynching. He could sense where they were in the city, starting on the other end of the Seine and working their way in, getting closer and closer to his home. The bells morphed into screams, shrieks of pain and terror, cries of triumph, scratching metal on shattering glass, jeers and shouts of fistfights over the freshly-liberated bread. Feverish, he lost touch with reality, screaming himself awake from delusional nightmares. Of that guillotine. Of a laughing, jaunting Louis and Parliament. Marie making a gory and disgusting headpiece out of his severed head.

-The cold. As May waned and September waxed the nights grew chilly. He shivered and shivered uncontrollably, until he shivered himself into exhaustion. Sleep would claim him for an hour, maybe two.

No longer random and erratic as they used to be. It was a system, a stupid system, isolating each of his problems clearly for no one to listen to. Bearing them to the forefront of his mind with no alleviation. Throw in a letter or two from Nations and Louis, and voila! The miserable, suffering bundle of joy that was France.

At least the isolation was sort of starting to help.

 

 

_'France,_

_Spain told me to write to you since you haven't been answering any of his letters for almost a decade, now. Or Austria's, or Al's, or Prussia's . . ._

_Are you okay, Papa? Is everything okay? Is anything okay?_

_Even Britain seems concerned. At least, when I see him he looks concerned. He's always traveling from Britain to Canada and back again. He actually seemed excited, not mad, when he caught me trying to slip this letter past him. Sometimes I catch him muttering to himself about you. "Hope the bloody frog's alright," and things like that. And roses. He keeps mentioning something about roses. He always catches himself when he sees I'm there, though. Britain! Acting like that! Can you believe it?_

_I think he knows something about what's going on- if something is, sorry to assume if it's nothing- but he won't tell me._

_I'm scared. And I'm upset. Him not telling me scares me. I know you're mad at him, eh? So am I still, in a way. Mad at both of you. You two turned me and Al against each other to supplement your vendettas. La guerre de la Conquête - The French and Indian War as Al calls it - took a large toll on our indigenous people and your settlers. But I still care about you, and I think he cares about me now, he really does. I think he's not telling me because he doesn't want to scare me, but . . . him not telling me is what's scaring me._

_I'm scared for you, Papa._

_So please, talk to us!_

_You're shutting the world out, and Britain says that's dangerous. We all want to help you! Let Spain and Prussia help you! Austria! For the love of maple, if you're that desperate, call on Russia! Just please, whatever's happening, take care of yourself and stay safe, okay? For me?_

_Au Revoir, et bonne chance._

_Mattieu Williams; The British Colony of Canada'_

 

He couldn't answer the letter. He couldn't.

No one could help him now, anyway.

This was civil war that was brewing. Nations got caught in the middle. That was just how things went.

No two battles felt the same. It depended on the size of the armies, how thin they were spread, rations, who was winning, who had been winning, so many things. But Nations learned how to deal with battle since they were mostly physical. Over time they learned how to physically handle it in the charge, forcing it away so the only thing left to focus on was how hard you stabbed the other guy, or how hard you got stabbed. Delivering the killing blow to the other Nation as quickly as possible.

This was civil war. His body, his mind, his essence, was literally fighting with itself. There was no escape, nowhere to hide. There was no solace, no relief. He was hoping the isolation would do it. Eventually.

Back to the letter, France thought solemnly. No, he wouldn't answer. Besides, he didn't even know what to say. He was ashamed, exhausted, embarrassed. He was too embarrassed to let anyone see him like this, groveling on his knees for help. Eck. Plus, he wouldn't be caught dead with his hair looking as dull, flat, and lifeless as it did now.

He abandoned the letter to the top of the growing pile of National letters to him on his bedside table. Right as he grabbed the next one his stomach wormed inside of him. Like a fist grabbed it, crushing it in its massive fingers, and twisted. He lurched over the side of the bed and emptied the minuscule, burning contents of his stomach into the chamberpot. Used to sudden, violent purges like that he calmly drained the rest of the water in the pitcher unhealthily to wash the searing out of his throat and opened the next letter. The Hapsburg royal seal. Austria.

 

 

_'France,_

_What in the WORLD is going on over there, you fool?! Not answering my letters, not passing a SINGLE law or mandate or ANYTHING since 1779! What is WRONG with you? Are you even trying to run your country? Are you even TRYING to manage your monarch?!_

_I'm only going to say this one more time, you idiot: MY royal family is starting to panic because YOUR royal family, their son-in-law, is daft! Twiddling his thumbs for years on end! They think Marie married a ninny! They think she married a coward! A simpleton! An oaf! An ignoramus! A dolt, a dunderhead, a moron, a twit, an imbecile!_

_NEED I GO ON?_

_He is shaming and discrediting the Hapsburg name! Did you know that the Austrian court is poking fun at Maria-Theresa for Louis' incompetence? 'What's she doing over there,' they say, like it's Marie's fault! He is ruining France and bringing Austria down with him. You better do something about him soon before you have another fight on your hands. Get off that rose-petaled posterior of yours, and do something. I am only going to ask you this one. last. time. before I march in there and take her back to Austria myself. Are we clear?_

_Make. Louis. Do. Something. Before. Marie's. Reputation. Is. Ruined!_

_And at least answer this letter, you buffoon. I hope you know that Haydn and angry Bach have been playing through my lady's palace because of you!_

_Roderich Edelstein; Kaiserthum Oesterreich - Monarchie Hapsburger'_

That actually made France chuckle! Angry musical insults! But the laugh died and he winced as it made his chest hurt. Hah! As if France was the only one who would ruin her reputation. It was ruined the moment it took her more than six months to conceive a child with Louis. Despite it not being her fault, she still bore the brunt of the insults.

Fine. Austria could barge in and lay waste to France if he wanted to for all France cared.

It wasn't like he could get any worse.

 

 ** _February, 1785_**  
**_Marais, Paris - 3rd Arrondissement_**  
**_France's Château_**

It took a few months, but the distance was finally doing France good. For the most part.

Everything dulled considerably, enough for him to plaster on a faux smile and have it look reasonably convincing for the courier. Hardly any more headaches. No fevers. He stilll shook, but he had strength. He chalked it up to the fear of the riots reaching his district.

He opened the door confident he wouldn't blow chunks and the courier smiled, pleasantly surprised by the bit of color that returned to France's (still gaunt but filling) face.

" _Bonjour, Monsieur Bonnefoy_! You look well!"

" _Merci beaucoup_. I am feeling better."

" _Votre lettre_."

" _Merci_."

" _Je vous en prie_. I can't stay and chat. I've got more letters to deliver. Glad to see you so well. _Au revoir_."

" _Au revoir_."

He shut the door and snapped the letter open with ease, glancing at the first few lines.

 

 

_'Francis,_

_I hope this letter reaches you well in Paris. I'm sorry-'_

_Qu'est-ce que c'est?_ Could Louis actually be apologizing? France recovered from his shock to keep reading eagerly.

 

 

_'I'm sorry to hear that you haven't been well.'_

Of course not. Still, though, ONE apology gave him hope. He continued reading.

 

_'I suppose if that is the reason for your lack of response, I forgive you.'_

Into the fire.

 

 ** _August, 1785_**  
**_Marais, Paris - 3rd Arrondissement_**  
**_France's Château_**

France his a point in the middle of 1785 where he could sleep through the night. Sometimes it was natural, healing sleep, sometimes it was the dull pain that lulled him into unconsciousness.

Either way, sleep was sleep.

Sleep meant respite. Beautiful, peaceful respite. Not even the riots could wake him.

Louis stopped sending letters. So the courier stopped coming.

France was officially alone.

The perk shifted to dreaming. France wasn't sure if his newfound talent was the case with the other Nations and frankly, he didn't want to ask. Each Nation had their own special quirk, or skill set. America had his super-strength, and he and Canada both could track and hunt game better than everyone. Russia, for the life of him, could not get drunk- the direct result of years and years (and years) of unknowingly building up a tolerance with vodka. But the teenage country could aim, shoot, and reload a pistol so fast and accurately . . . it just made everyone that much more afraid of him. Spain could dance better than anyone. If he watched a dance for a few seconds he could pick it up instantly. As good as Britain was at sailing, the Nordics would trump him any day. Little Italy could look at any painting, any at all, and know the artist and year. He could also replicate it to a T. The cute little boy could just paint in general! The fine arts were his to command.

It was usually things like that, things connected to their peoples' passions. France had one of those talents, too. He could taste any wine, blindfolded, too, and know, just KNOW, the name, the color, the age, the vineyard where the grapes were grown, each individual ingredient that went into it, the family that mixed, fermented, aged, and bottled it, everything. All from one small taste. That was his generic one just like everyone else.

So when he found that he had this other little talent, he jealously guarded his secret. Even if the others could do it, acting like it was his and his alone made him feel special, prideful, set apart from the others (besides in his recovering beauty and fashion sense, _bien sûr_ ).

Sometimes when France dreamed, he slipped into the lives of his people and relived their days. He wasn't sure why. Probably because of the crisis. His subconscious mind was showing him what life was really like for the Parisians in Louis' wake.

That answer took the magic and the special feeling away from it, though, so he pretended it was a special feeling or talent. He closed his eyes and they opened on someone else's house or family. He'd live an hour in a man's shoes, or maybe spend a whole day as a single mother. He got snippets and clips of each of their days, their handling of their own issues brought on by the depression. Sometimes they were good, and sometimes they were not so good.

He could be a woman who just got laid off. He could be a wealthy nobleman who just collected his tax. He could be a homeless person with their two children, toes and fingers freezing in the chill of night no matter how warm the weather of Paris was, the life bleeding out of them into the cold, unforgiving streets. He could be a proud worker who made enough to happily feed his family. He could be a sweaty, ripple-muscled farmer whose cattle were diseased. He could be stricken with pneumonia, anything. Anybody. They were good. They were mostly bad.

France didn't care. They were human. They were the life and the experiences he cherished before the onset of the pain. He got to be with the people in spirit, pain-free. The only horror of the dreaming was that if they were bad, he got a clear, raw, uncensored view of the social turmoil. And he was helpless to do anything about it in real life, lest the horrible, horrible waves start crashing into him again, crippling him. Sometimes the dreams even made him sick if they were bad enough, but not usually.

It took him a while to get a handle on it, and figure out how to root himself in one person or situation. Before that he shot dizzily from place to place, a farmworker, a Bourgeois, a Parliament member, a clergyman. Around and around and around until he jerked himself awake, back in his body and scared out of his mind. "Where am I? WHO am I? Is this real?"

Once things settled down and he chose who to see next he started to notice a pattern. Two names kept popping up, over and over, in conversation, in gossip on the street, at the dinner table, across social classes. One France remembered; he used to be head of finances of France under Louis XVI. Jacques Necker. Fired in 1781, he published a book or something detailing the finances and their allotment by the crown, and the people ate it up until they realized it was falsified. Then they ate HIM up. He had slowly been gaining back his reputation. The other name he missed. Always half-whispered in awe.

Rob . . . Robes- something-or-other.

He never remembered by the time he woke up.

 

 ** _December 4, 1785_**  
**_Marais, Paris - 3rd Arrondissement_**  
**_France's Château_**

 

 

_'Francey-pants,_

_Seriously, where've you been? We're all worried sick about you! And, frankly, a little mad! You haven't answered any of me and Washington's letters or even Canada's! What the hell, France?!_

_Spain thinks you're dead, Canada's scared out of his mind for you, Austria's sending threats to me to get you to talk to him, Prussia told us he'll give up the title of biggest feet to you if you'd just talk to the man! Whatever that means._

_Me and Britain aren't exactly on speaking terms yet, but even he spoke to me long enough to say you haven't even written to him to insult him. We all know something's wrong by that alone!_

_Look, President Washington told me that your guy Louis XVI hasn't been good for France. He says that our Revolution bankrupted you and your country. He doesn't know much more beyond that, though, so he couldn't tell me anything else. But if you need help, France, just lemme know, okay? I still owe you for helping my Revolution, anyway. I'll help however I can._

_Or, something Washington always says is "It's the people, Alfred. The people are the key. They fought for their own right to put people like me here. And they have the right to take it away just as easily. That is the system we built, you and I, when we took this country and freed it. It's the least I can do to go in the direction they tell me to, especially when they were generous enough to hand me the reins. There is no government, ANY government, without the people. There isn't even God without people."_

_Profound, right? Not sure I get it completely, but if your boss is that bad, try something on your own! Help the people any way you can! If you're sick maybe it'll make you . . . not sick!_

_I guess now's a bad time to invite you to my Christmas party, especially if you've got issues over there, but just know that if you ever want a break, my house's open!_

_Hope everything works out, France!_

_Alfred F. Jones; The United States of America'_

L'Amérique. That physically 19 year old, chronologically 8 year old Nation could sometimes see things better and more concretely than the oldest and wisest. He had the ability to look at things as though they were black and white. If there is a problem, you either fix it or you don't. If you choose to fix it, you either choose option A or option B.

Naïveté at it's finest. An advantage in simple situations and at the best times for concise, prompt decisions, but otherwise, in average and the worst of times, a hoodwinking hinderance. The things you don't account for manage to corrupt the simplicity at every opportunity they get. It didn't account for the grey that spanned the middle of the black on the left, and the white on the right, like a river. America didn't worry about the stability of the bridge, only that a bridge would get him across, so build one! He did not understand that even if you took the direct route across a difficult problem, the consequences and side problems of the grey river babbled and splashed over the rocks, spattering your clothes. You made it to the other side, sure, but sopping wet.

Things were never black and white.

Still, he gave France an idea. Help the people. If Louis was stagnant officially, why couldn't France work locally? Why couldn't he be the Christmas that wouldn't normally come to the people of Paris? The people needed his aid, so France would go to their aid.

Great. Alfred made him idealistic.

The rational, analytical, pessimistic Britain inside of him laughed at the naïve America taking root. 'Speak for yourself,' it said. 'You weren't born yesterday. You knew all along that the people need to be helped. The reason you haven't done it yet is because of your selfish fear.'

Did he really want to risk the pain and the exhaustion again? What if he ventured out into the cold, starving world and it didn't work, and he forced himself back into year-long remissions? He wasn't emotionally ready to take that leap of faith. He couldn't do it if it happened again. He was desperate, unhinged, pathetic. No way was he willing to risk leading this cocoon, this little bubble of comfort he carefully and meticulously crafted around himself, as fragile as porcelain. It wasn't worth it to silently spite Louis if it wouldn't help him.

America fought back, 'The spite would just be a perk if it didn't work! The people need help! Just try it! For YOU! Who are you if not the people?'

All they did was confuse France, sticking him on the edge of that grey river, each prodding towards black and white until he lost his balance and was swallowed by the grey. Swallowed by the indecision and brittle, flimsy avoidance which would pop his cocoon anyway.

He wanted desperately to help, but this would also be an experiment. If they felt better, he would hopefully feel better. His heart was with the people. His head was trying to make the pain stop, for the love of God. Why not both?

He thought he was stuck, but America opened the door. L'Amérique gave him hope for BOTH the people and himself, something absent in France for a long time. All France had to do was peek in and see if it was the right door, damn the consequences.

He had a rarity in France in his château- a personal oven. And he had stores upon stores of flour to spare. He got straight to work.

He had baking to do.

 

 ** _March, 1786_**  
**_Marais, Paris - 3rd Arrondissement_**  
**_France's Château_**

 

 

_'Francis,_

_I hope this letter reaches you well in Paris. I'm told there are riots everyday now, due to some "food crisis". I have heard nothing of this so-called crisis. Just do be careful._

_I'm afraid that Parliament has not been truthful with me. I think they are hiding matters of those kind from me: issues and grievances. Brushing them under the rug because they fail to see how they affect France. While I may agree on some of them, I would still like to see them.'_

"Oh, STUFF IT!" France yelled out loud to the letter. "It's not like you'd make a DECISION on them, or do anything to FIX them if you DID agree!"

 

_'If I am being honest, I miss your grounding presence and voice of reason. I feel like a blindfold has been placed over my eyes and I am being led around. At least while you were here you had my other hand, acting as my eyes. I have no one here who I feel will explain things honestly, good or bad, to me.'_

What a laughable joke. "Acting like you would've changed your mind or even LISTENED to me! You still did exactly what they wanted!"

 

_'I know we parted on poor terms, but I would like for you to consider returning to court, and returning to your positions my advisor. In the meantime, I will be doing my best to get to the bottoms of these problems. It would be easier with you here._

_Please consider it. I anxiously await your answer._

_H. R. M. Louis XVI'_

Robespierre. The man's name was Robespierre.

Maximilien François Marie Isidore de Robespierre.

No, really. France wasn't kidding. That was his full name.

The people continued to fawn over him and Necker. France picked up the whispers as he passed out bread and blankets. A lawyer and a banker. Formidable indeed.

France walked through the streets of the poorer districts with the bread wrapped up in the blankets so he isn't immediately attacked. Anyone he passed huddling in the street he gave out whole baguettes to.

 

 ** _May, 1786_**  
**_Marais, Paris - 3rd Arrondissement_**  
**_France's Château_**

France's eyes shot open.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

He could feel eyes on him. Someone was in his room! His chest squeezed in on his heart and a scream fought to leave him, but he clamped his mouth shut and managed to quiet the residual squeak of fear. It grew dead silent, like the person sensed he was awake and froze. The two sat in absolute stillness, absolute darkness. Shouts came to him from outside. Whoops and cries of excitement and anticipation, extremely close. France couldn't hear what they were saying. He didn't make the connection.

Some of his belongings shifted and his heart leapt into his throat as he started. He suddenly lunged for the wine bottle on his bedside table, sitting up quickly and loosing it towards the foot of his bead, where the attacker was. It shattered lamely against the opposite wall instead of someone's head, and fe saw that he was actually alone. There was no one there to begin with.

But he heard a noise. More than sure he was being watched. Someone. Something. Waiting. Waiting for him to get up and investigate. He could feel it. Black fingers creeping up his back and seizing his chest. Tightening it in fear until he was having trouble breathing. His heart throbbed so loudly and powerfully his whole body pulsed with each pound. He watched the dark corners of his room tensely, warily, not even daring to breathe in the silence. He gripped the blanket tightly, scanning as well as he could around him, shuddering as his imagination ran rampant, picturing a giant black beat with red eyes diving onto his bed and holding him down. Chomping his neck. Squirting blood. Or a poltergeist, choking the life out of him as he lay defenseless. Blood oozing thickly down the wall instead of wine-

A loud knock on his door banged like a gunshot and he jumped so violently he fell out of bed. Or was it the door slamming? Oh, God, someone was in his house! He quickly jumped up, frozen, rooted to the spot by the sounds coming from the foyer and outside. Unsure what to do. Oh, God, OH GOD!

His pistol was down in the cellars. All the guns he had mounted on the wall from different points of his history weren't usable. The swords weren't available to him either. All his historical artifacts had a room all to themselves. He just left his workable pistol when he grabbed the wine. He had no weapon. "' _Improvise, France!_ '" he screamed at himself. "' _Don't just stand there like a debutante at a fashion show!_ '" He could use the fire poker. It would have to do until he could get down to the cellars. He slowly crossed the room, chiding at every board that creaked, every pound his attempted light-footedness made on the floor. Snatching the cooling weapon from the dying fire he lightly padded back across the room and flattened himself to the wall, leaning over and peeking out the door into the foyer. The noise was gone again, and so were the people. Maybe they heard France upstairs and hid. Something else clicked against the front door and he heard noises and voices outside, matching the sounds he heard from his room. He sighed in relief. No one was in his home, he didn't think. They were trying to get inside. That was much easier to handle. France saw the light dancing against the windows. They had torches. It was impossible to tell how many there were outside, though.

France had to hide. Or he had to get his gun. If he could get to his gun, he could take care of these bastards quick.

A protective, violent sort of anger suddenly sprang up inside of him. They thought they could break into HIS house? Loot and steal from HIM?! From France HIMSELF?! They had another freaking thing coming!

He gripped the poker, two handed, white knuckled, behind him like a club. He had to get past the door to get to the pantry, then to the wine cellar. He angrily and confidently stomped down the stairs, bravado as large and intimidating as he could make it, getting about halfway down before the clicking and banging resumed on the door. They were trying to pick the lock. All pretense of his bravery gone in a second, he froze there on the steps, expecting them to be successful any second and barge in.

"You sure this is the place?" he heard through the door.

" _Ouais_ , I followed him back here after he handed out the bread. So he has to have flour."

"Maybe he's just rich enough to buy bread at the price now."

"Either way. Doesn't matter. We're still getting something out of this."

The light danced brighter and brighter in the window next to the door, and he realized too late that one of them with the torch was going to peek through the window. He dashed for the dining room.

Too late.

The light pooled into the foyer, distorted by the glass, and he got caught right in it. He stopped, frozen in fear.

"He's in there! Go! Go! Go!"

Someone smashed the window with the butt of his bayonet and crashed through, showering glass on France. With a gasp he shielded his face and ran right past them to the left into the dining room. He vaulted the table completely, using one arm to gracefully throw his legs over then continued into the pantry, the footsteps and shouts echoing through his vast, empty house. But he didn't look back to see how close they were. As he reached the pantry he threw upon the trap door to the wine cellar but he never got his legs in to slide down.

One grabbed the back of his nightshirt and clotheslined him, choking him and staggering him back. Like a striking snake France half-spun towards the man and swing the poker over his head, down on the man's elbow. His arm snapped and he wailed in pain, drawing away, and France threw a heavy shoulder into his chest, knocking him down. As another entered the room and charged he swung the poker and clocked him in the side of the head and knocked him out. Another was on him instantly, diving onto his back. He stumbled forward and crashed into one of the storage cabinets. Kettles and pots clanged loudly all around them, littering the floor. France straightened up and tried to detach the man's bear hug from around his arms as footsteps pounded into the room.

"Shoot him! Shoot him!" the guy on his back roared, grabbing his ponytail to probably expose more to shoot. France tried to turn away but he heard the pop and a bullet embedded stinging into his thigh. He screamed and his leg crumpled, hot, wet blood immediately soaking uncomfortably into the fabric of his pants. The man's full weight landed on France's back right as he exhaled, so all the rest of his breath left him in a whoosh! He gasped and choked; the man climbed on top of his back, putting one knee between his shoulder blades and the other into the back of his neck, grinding his cheekbone unpleasantly into the floor. He kicked uselessly, crying out at the fire that shot through his thigh.

The one that shot him tossed the gun to the man kneeling on France and he put the cold gun to the back of France's head. He leaned down and looked France in the eye.

He found out over history that people had . . . problems . . . harming their Nation. People hesitated. Whatever they did more often than not had some sort of emotional repercussion, some sort of regret, both at the moment and afterwards. Just because of the power and essence of the Nations. People felt that, literally, a part of them died, was cut away, so he's been told.

Usually people have problems, ESPECIALLY looking their Nation in the eye. Not this man. He glared triumphantly down at France, jammed the gun sharply into his neck. He heard the click as he cocked it again, saw the flash, heard the bang, then everything went black.

 

France's eyes peeled open.

Immediately his temples started to throb; little searing lightning bolts of pain shot from the back of his head to the front and back again, deadening his thoughts. His ears pulsed. His head pulsed, his vision pulsed with each head pulse.

He moaned in agony and clutched at his head around the wound, the source of the pain. Awareness came to him little-by-little, in simple thought phrases.

Dark. Eyes dark. Can't hear.

Pain. Head hurt. Bad. Really bad.

Leg. Also pain. Getting better. Healing.

Hair. Feels wet. Sticky. Crusty. Blood.

Blood on clothes, blood on floor. Uncomfortable. Slimy.

He still couldn't see, couldn't hear. The blast deadened both of those as well. So he gently twitched his fingers against the floor when movement occurred to him.

Hardwood. Pantry. ATTACKERS! GET OUT, GET OUT!

What happened? His mind screamed with ferocious clarity. How did I get here?! Fighting away the pounding and confusion, he numbly felt himself frantically peel his body from the floor. He made it to a hunched over position before a head rush rammed his brain full-force, like a battering ram. The darkness gyrated messily in his eyes. He tipped over, stumbling head-long into the cabinetry, woozy from loss of blood, and held both sides of his head to literally steady it. Though he could feel the healing process vein to dull the pain, his head throbbed evilly. As the room began to poke clear through the darkness, and his hearing came back to him, he gently breathed himself back to lucidity.

He looked around.

They destroyed, absolutely destroyed, his home. Took everything that looked remotely valuable, and destroyed everything else. All the silver and glass plates were gone, the cabinet tipped and shattered. Silverware, gone. The whole dining table and chairs, tipped and broken, the legs tossed through the windows. All of his paintings and candlesticks ripped from the walls, his curtains shorn and defeated, limp and dead. They scratched the wallpaper with knives, took the mirrors, looked the chandelier to the floor, stole all the furniture, scratched up the wood . . .

That was just all he could see of the dining room.

Instinct, first-aid, National impulse told him to take care of his wounds. Dress them, clean them, make the healing easy on himself. Despite the groans of protest from his head he stood and staggered dizzily, but not to take care of himself. He ignored the endless, lifeless echoes of nature and got up to look around his empty, decrepit home. It would heal no matter if he wrapped it now or later. He just had to look at his home first. He just had to. Every window shattered. Everything broken.

He moved to the artifact room he had, and collapsed to a knee when he saw that every statue was stolen. Every knick-knack of the centuries, priceless treasures of his life, busts, maps, swords, paintings, treaties, books, music, everything that ever allowed him to call himself France, ripped away from him. The library was no better. Books ripped from the shelves, torn apart, and burned, white parchment scattered all around like confetti. Confetti from a bloody fun party.

All his instruments, his pianoforte and early harpsichord, partitive organ, his vielle from the Medieval Era, his oboe and flute, cello, viola, violin, like someone took a club to them. Polished and varnished wood scattered all about. His flute broken in half. And a gun. Yup. Those were bullet holes in his pianoforte.

He couldn't stand to be in there anymore. All that history, gone, like the Library of Alexandria. His knees felt weak in its wake, and it took every ounce of his power to not fall to his knees with how badly his heart hurt and cry right there. So he moved out to the stairs. He crawled painfully slowly up on all fours- he wasn't sure he could make it if he was upright- and looked in his bedroom. They cut up his sheets and stabbed his bed. Feathers, cotton, the drapes, a layer of snow on the floor. His drawers were all ripped open and tossed to the floor, and he followed the trail of discarded garments to the rock-shattered window, peering at the charred pile of his clothes in the yard. It was a big fire.

He guessed, based on the ashes and consistency of his blood in his hair, that he was out for about four days. He couldn't be sure. Nobody could tell him, either. The testament to how weak he had become. He should've healed in a day, two at the maximum.

France stumbled around his room, tripping left and right on littered splinters, finally reaching the bare table where he kept the pile of National letters. All gone. The whole pile. All the voices of genuine concern for him from Austria, Spain, Prussia, Canada, America, yes, even Britain . . . all gone. In a way that made him feel the worst. Not the attack, not the fear, not the cold chill of a gun to his head, not the physical after-effects, not even the history. Even though he knew he wasn't going to answer any of the letters, just knowing they all were there was a sort of emotional solace where it lacked in him physically. Knowing people cared about him made him sort of happy. Meh, whatever. They probably read them and burned them, unable to make sense of the language of the Nations.

Good thing he burned his letters from Louis, or they would've hung his body in the streets knowing he was 'close' to the King.

The spiteful, ignorant, fool of a man.

'Take care of your head,' his impulsive thoughts whined, making it throb harder than the other times to prove their point. He ignored them further. They just weren't convincing enough. He wanted to be sad right now, and his head wasn't pressing enough to interrupt it.

The only thing left completely unharmed was the chest at the foot of his bed. The monster padlock was scratched; they obviously tried to get into it. It looked a little skew as well, like they wanted to move it. They must have realized it was too big and heavy to take and abandoned it. Good. Something went right for him. If he would've lost what was in there . . .

At least something survived.

'Ok, now take care of your head!'

He didn't feel like it. He mindlessly, obligatorily picked up drawers to put back in the dresser, and began piling up the larger, unsalvageable pieces of wood just to ignore his head. He couldn't even bring himself to muster anger. They were needy, they were desperate to survive. He could never understand what it was like to be them. His life wasn't on the line like theirs. Not yet, anyway. Blink, and a human is gone. He could not and would never understand their mad desperate sprint to simply survive, and then sprint further with the weights of life on their ankles. He would never understand their stone-hard resolution to lift those weights just so they could say "Yes! I've DONE something!" when they CRAWLED across the finish line. He could admire it. And he did! But he couldn't understand.

All he had left instead of admire was apathy. No anger. This attack was how they lift their chains.

Who was he, a man with decades, centuries, eons to spare, to lift his chains, to get in the way of their hundred meter dash?

 

 ** _August, 1786_**  
**_Hôtel-de-Ville, Paris - 3rd Arrondissement_**  
**_Pont Neuf_**

That got him thinking more.

It all began with one thought. He had it as he laid in bed, staring glumly into the embers of the fire he was too lazy to poke. As he listened to the cacophony of screams in his head. The calls of justice in the secret meetings. The incessant whining of Parliament that everything was fine. The anger and passive, lazy acceptance of blind eyes.

"I'm going to die."

He dismissed it immediately, harshly scolding himself for being so over dramatic.

'France,' he laughed internally at himself. 'Francis Bonnefoy, if you survived the Plague you can survive this.'

He sighed at that inner voice. Why couldn't it let him be dramatic? He had a right to complain every once in a while. But he still listened to himself, dropping the subject.

For about ten minutes.

The more he thought about it, the more he started asking questions. What ifs. The worst kinds of questions to ask yourself when avoiding things. Because they make you look at your actions, really look at the very thing you want to avoid, and see just how the consequences play out. And then front here it spirals directly down into the worst-case scenarios and their effect. And then you believe they're going to come to be, no matter how skewed they become, so no matter how screwed you though you (didn't care you) were by not doing the thing, you'd be ten times more screwed if the worst-case scenario came to fruition. So you did the thing anyway, shitty and half-assed and last-minute.

"What if this kills me?"

'You can't die anyway,' he thought to his over dramatic self. 'Ok. Now let it go.'

"But what about Rome?"

'Uuugh! Let it GO!'

"What if what happens . . . you never know! What if it collapses France? No more French Empire. No more Royaume de France!"

'Well I WON'T die. Like I said, if I survived the Plague . . . Now drop it.'

"What if you're doomed? What if you just fade into History like Rome?"

'I said drop it!'

"What if everyone forgets about you after you die? What if Louis' legacy is France's lasting mark?"

What happens if a Nation . . . dies?

That question right there sparked an internal theological, theoretical, philosophical struggle of the century. You can guess it led to MORE questions. About should. And the possibility of his death and Purgatory. No, not Purgatory, just . . . nothing. That Nations just cease to be in the mortal world one day, with nothing.

Fear. Guilt.

What happened when a Nation died? What would happen to France when HE died?

"OH, MON DIEU!"

All of it was his fault. All of it.

His lack of better influences over Louis XV to dissuade him from the wars, the women, the wanton and billowy reign. His failure to clean up the mess before Louis XVI and Parliament stepped in his way. His failure to push the timid Louis harder than Parliament. His lack of contribution to the economy, the people, the taxes. This collapse, this total low that he had sunk to, that he'd let his body, his country sink to . . .

He had no one to blame but himself.

This civil war was his fault. Because of him people killed each other over a morsel, a tiny speck of food, people did what they did to him and his home to other people. He was to blame for their pain, and his own.

He hated himself for it.

Like Lady Macbeth he felt dirty, unclean, tainted. He couldn't wash the blood of his innocent countrymen off his hands, no matter how hard he scrubbed. They were trapped because of him, he was trapped because of himself. He lost their jobs and he killed off their families with cold and disease and he broke their homes and hearts and he pulled their triggers and tied their nooses and hung their bodies and chopped off their heads.

Blood was on him constantly, every waking minute. It spattered each brand new petticoat he bought, seeping into his handkerchief so he wiped his face with it. It ran thick through his hair with each labored stroke of his brush, coating and coagulating messily, knotting, dulling the shine that almost returned that he didn't deserve. It seeped through the wallpaper he bought, puddled in the new wood he bought for a new table and chairs. Always around him. Always guilty. Always always, always.

It led him to think about all the blood he spilled. National or otherwise. All the men he killed in battle against whoever he was fighting. All their blood was on his hands too. All of his sins. All of his centuries, all the poor decisions he made.

He hated himself.

But what could he do? After the first few, eating bullets wouldn't relieve him. He didn't want to wait long enough to deprive himself of sustenance and go that way. All forms of punishment lost their luster with the knowledge that he would wake up again to face his crimes. His sentence. Eternity.

He started thinking that no matter what awaited his soul, his existence, if it was good he wouldn't deserve it, wouldn't get to have it. Just another empty eternity like this one. No peace. No respite.

What awaited him? When he died from this? When it finally killed him? Were his sins too great?

That was how he found himself walking to Notre Dame.

He finally felt safe enough to show his face around all of Paris without being recognized, or targeted, or anything. The looters had long since moved on. He could make it.

He grudgingly turned away from the people he saw littering the streets. He dutifully committed his gaze to the ground at any screams, or cries, or coughs, or pleas for money, or cries of _Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité_. Never mind that it was daylight.

God, how he hated himself. Too exhausted to get involved anymore. It wasn't life in the Parisian streets anymore, like when he got there in 1783. It was ominous. The city itself held her breath, waiting tensely for that figure to jump around the corner and attack. But Paris couldn't even tell who the enemy was anymore.

The huge columns of Notre Dame loomed peacefully above the other buildings, aesthetically pleasingly symmetrical, like a confident fille who knew she was pretty, but still was welcoming to the less pretty buildings. France supposed he was one of the less beautiful people going there now.

As he crossed the bridge to the island, more of the beautiful features became visible: the Rose Window, the three gates, and with them came the memories of the construction. For 30 years he watched la Cathédrale take root in his heart with the influx of fear, awe, wonder, and inspiration it gave the people. Of course, he'd been inside since they finished, but just to look. Not for the purpose he'd gone there for on this day. Suddenly, he was looking right at the entirety of the Western Façade, the front. Slowly, painfully, he crossed the courtyard, meeting eyes with all the gargoyles. Accusing. Menacing. They did their job well, frightening away the evil and unworthy spirits. They made him want to run. Maybe he was evil. He consciously fought every single urge in his body to run. He shouldn't be there. He shouldn't go in there. He shouldn't sully such a beautiful place, built for humans to cleanse themselves.

He stepped up to the middle of the three doors- the one he thought most fitting- the Portal of the Last Judgement, craning his neck back and shielding his eyes from the glaring sun to peer at the intricate, magnificent architecture. Statues representing good and evil, an angel and the Devil himself, separated by scales. Her face was inclined upwards along with the other souls behind her, staring in awe and serenity and joy and fear all at once at Christ Jesus on His Holy Throne in Heaven, presiding over court and judgement. All arched to the taper around Him were the rest of His angels and saints, all probably with judgements of their own, wings of the angels filling each slot allotted to them. The Devil's . . . almost cartoonish sneer, standing stooped and ugly, tugged at souls towards his Hell on the right. A sharp contrast to the beautiful Jesus.

France's eyes finally settled on the crazy, inconsistent, jumbled mass of souls, floating aimless and frozen in stone Purgatory, waiting for their chance to step up to the scales and be judged. He chuckled miserably, identifying with them. This mindless existence, his painful, mindless Purgatory. He may never move, may never reach peace, and neither would their frozen stone bodies. When would he face his scales?

He wasn't sure if there was any judgement, good or bad, to look forward to.

He didn't want to go in. He got another wave of . . . somehow he felt . . . too dirty, too . . . too unworthy . . . to enter such a hallowed, beautiful Cathédrale. So he put it off, looking at every bit of exterior architecture he could. The left door, the Portal of the Virgin, all dedicated to Mary in her final moments, and the Portal of Saint Anne to the right. He walked around the entire massive structure to the Northern Cloister Portal, also a dedication to Mary and Jesus' childhood, the Portal of Saint Stephen. France himself didn't know much about Saint Stephen, only that he was a martyr.

Though the majority of his people were Catholic, giving him inherent Catholic knowledge, he didn't practice. Really none of them did. The Nations. For various reasons, but if France had to guess the biggest reason was because of his exact question. Maybe too afraid of the Catholic fate knowing all of their sins. Centuries upon centuries of accumulation.

He went and closely inspected the modest Red Door, the flying buttresses in the back, each Rose Window in all directions. About 5 trips around. As he walked around the West front one last time, backing away to re-check the view he had walking IN, he ran out of things to marvel at.

Crossing the courtyard he gave one last glance to Jesus on His throne before forcing open the ridiculously heavy door and entering in.

Immediately he was struck by the fractals and riotous color of he stained glass, hues spattered on the blue and white checkered floor by the midday sun. Pink, light green, sky and royal blue, red and orange and black all mashed together. All four Rose Windows and all the side windows had their own artistic story to tell.

He didn't sit and stare at too much else, slowly lowering his pointer finger into the crystal basin of Holy Water. He was afraid to dip his finger in too far and drip it all over- like a precious nectar every drop was meant to be treasured. So he awkwardly tipped his hand over and back, waiting for the cool touch of water. Finally he felt it, and chuckled jokingly when it didn't burn him. He shook a drop back into the basin just in case, then crossed himself, naturally in rhythm with what his people knew.

'In the name of the Father,' - the forehead- God

'And of the Son,' - the heart-ish area- Jesus, son of God

'And of the Holy Spirit,' - left and right shoulders- God's will

The Nations all used to practice dutifully with their rulers - in Europe, anyway, France remembered. It dictated everything a man did back then. You didn't do ANYTHING without worrying about how it effected your soul in God's eyes. Out of fear of damnation Mass was attended every single week. Until the Renaissance. People started asking why, how? They took a step away from the church and from there it became a National choice. Most of them opted against it.

France himself had sort of went out of necessity after Robert II in 1031.

France refused to look around the Cathedral. If there were people in there he knew he would back out. He was there on a mission, dammit, and he would get his answers. He felt eyes on him constantly, though, and did his best to think through it as he chose a seat among the rows and chairs. As soon as he was seated he allowed himself a peek of the whole place, but when he raised his head his eyes shot instinctually to the ceiling. He still felt like he was in the wrong for being inside. His eyes perused the beautiful and ornate paintings and the chandeliers. The arches and column all around him, cold, hard stone, yet somehow . . . captivating. He traced the designs carved with his eyes.

All just as he remembered. He chanced a glance straight ahead to the altar and saw in the very back the huge, graphic crucifix still mounted back there, past the choir's seats in the curved back. Illuminated on all sides by the windows, and a light directly above.

"' _That's enough looking_ ,'" he scolded himself. "' _None of this is new to you. Just get on with it_.'"

As he peeled himself from the pew and slowly dropped his knees on the cold tile, he imagined everybody up there in Heaven laughing, scorning, jeering at what was sure to be a pathetic attempt at prayer. God Himself, all His angels, saints, all France's past rulers, even Jeanne. His vision of her sweaty, blood-spattered, battle-worn, dirty face made him hesitate a second longer. What would she say?

No doubt she'd be disappointed, disgusted, angry. She didn't fight, didn't die for this. For France, the Nation and the nation, to look like this. He acknowledged the thoughts, then forcibly shoved them as hard as he could into the deepest chasm he could imagine, shutting it tight around them.

Finally, with as deep a breath as he could muster, he crossed himself again, ' _Au nom du Père, et du Fils, et du Saint Esprit, Amen,_ ' and launched into his piece. ' _My name is The Kingdom of France. La Personnification Nationale du Royaume de France. My personal identity is Francis Bonnefoy. I'm sorry. I know I'm probably not worthy of talking to You, but I have to try._

' _God . . . God is an odd concept to us_ ,' he thought, lowering his head. He felt sheepish, and out of place. ' _We are eternal. You understand us in that regard. But humans are born. They live. They die. Like lightning they grace this world and are gone. Not us. Not You. They - whether they know it or not - they realize their mortality. They know they've only maybe got 3/4ths of a century to leave a mark. Your promise of eternity after - Your "heaven", if it's up there - is an easy draw. Up there next to You. Where their life won't be snuffed out like a dying candle. Whether they made a mark here or not becomes irrelevant up there. So if they have a belief system, if they have something to look forward to, some end goal that they'll reach eternity, and it helps them live, who are we to question? Who are the Nations to impede, or scorn, or judge? There's no proof, but so what? They don't need it, because they have faith and hope. It's odd to us because we don't know if we even should believe in the first place. We're not even sure if we need to._

' _It's almost like we reserve it for humans. We leave them to it on the expectation that we're here forever, so we don't need it. All their sins are absolved in that Heaven when they get there. But what about us? What about our sins, our souls? We'll never reach Heaven, because we don't die. So if we even have souls to offer, what happens to us?_

' _Is there a judgement day for us if we somehow perish? Do we get a Heaven, or a Hell based on our choices, our lives? Or do we just . . . cease to be, the same way we somehow came into this world? I'm so scared,' he admitted, both to himself and God. 'I'm so scared of all that's happening to me and around me. I'm scared of how it'll change me if I survive. Right now, I don't see me surviving, and I'm scared to death of the chance of abyss, of nothing waiting for my soul. So I'm turning to You. To wipe clean my slate, and prepare my soul to be worthy of Your embrace, just in case. Selfish, I know. I know it's a lot to ask from someone who stopped worshipping, and just questioned Your existence. Boy, I'm ruining this. I'm sorry about all this. But hope is what I need. You give it to the humans, and so I need You to give it to me. However You can.'_

"Heh," he chided himself out loud. ' _What is hope to an immortal being? Maybe You can tell me, if You're up there._

' _Especially if You're up there. Especially if You're the one who put us here. If You're the one who breathed life into us for Your unknowable plan, or if we were born of this earth . . . I don't care either way. I've stopped questioning with the rest of us. But even if You didn't put us here, if You're even up there at all, if You do exist in Your paradise and You are listening, and this isn't just some farcical human folly of hope, and You're not a display either . . . then I need you to . . ._

' _I don't even know what I need. Forgiveness? I guess that's a good place to start. I need to know that even though I messed up, and messed up big, and messed up big for centuries, I didn't ruin people's hopes they have in You, Your plans for them, the dreams they long for before they meet You at the gates. They don't deserve that if I ruined it for them. I need to know that the people who already have met You in these troubling times feel safe, loved, not furious or mad at me for my fault in this._

' _I need to know that I isn't ruin my own soul's hope. That a heaven is real and exists to the Nations and is available to us in some form. A place that will wipe away our transgressions like humans, where we can coexist in a delightful eternity with the Nations who came before us. That is all. May You have mercy on my soul, our souls. Clean me of these guilts, clean my soul, and prepare it for my dying moments, if it should be soon in this merde-_

' _Whoops. Sorry. Mess. I'm scared,_ ' he admitted again, his shoulders sagging. The weight of his admission seemed to crash down around him. His heart felt heavy and sad, the emotional flood welled up against its walls and threatened to burst through. His eyes watered, and before he could even try to stop it a tear slipped down his cheek. ' _I'm scared of death! I'm scared! Undeserving of your human paradise, not even worthy of Hell. I'm scared of there being nothing for me. I'm not even scared of HELL! At least Hell is a place where I can spend eternity somewhat conscious of myself! I need You to have mercy on me. Please show me there's hope, even for a Nation, in life and death!_ ' He took a deep, calming breath, but unsure how to end it, just awkwardly said, ' _Thank you.'_

There. He did it. He got it all out. A little less succinct than what he wanted. Long, rambly, repetitive. But he was unpracticed and if God was listening, He'd get the point. France hoped. But at least he tried. He surprisingly felt at peace. Like all the weight of the world was off his shoulders. Like getting that all out into the world, leaving the ball in God's court, had already freed his should. The Catholic in him that was in his people knew God was forgiving, and would see him safe. The rest of him, pessimistic, starved, injured, attacked France scolded his stupidity. He thought one honest prayer session after centuries would do it? Was he crazy?

He smiled in the face of his other self, unable to become scared or enraged because of how much better he felt now. Besides, that particular failure he wasn't ready to face. In defiance of that France and to boost his own confidence he stayed for Mass in the Cathédrale. He knew what to do, how to respond, as his people did, and when they all spoke the Lord's Prayer, he made sure to put his effort into the smooth French. Not just empty words. Another sincere plea.

 

 

_'Pater Noster, qui es in caelis,_

_Sanctificetur nomen tuum._

_Adveniat regnum tuum._

_Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra._

_Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie,_

_et dimitte nobis debita nostra secut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris._

_Et ne nos inducas in tentationem,_

_sed libera nos a malo._

. . .

_Quia tuum est regnum et potentia et gloria in sæcula sæculorum._

_Amen.'_


	5. Chapter 5

**_August, 1786_ **  
**_Opéra, Paris_ **  
**_France's Château_ **

For the first time in months France drew his own water and washed, actually washed, his hair. He scrubbed his face, he thinned his eyebrows, vowing never to look this much like that ass across the Channel ever again. He put on cologne, he prepared and cooked dinner, even set a place for himself at the table. He didn't feel any cleaner. He felt better after going to Notre Dame, but felt directionless. He didn't know what to do with himself after. Does he wait for God to answer him? How does he help himself?

Each night he retired with a prayer and those questions on his lips. Waiting for something to strike him. Divine will, or whatever. Appealing to him and telling him what to do.

Something hit him, but it wasn't Divine will.

He lay one night, perched on the brink between awake and sleep. Thinking. Wondering. Things had almost reached a normalcy for him. He didn't feel so stressed anymore, so things were probably getting better. People were still starving, but things were getting a little better, so he didn't have to worry too much-

He suddenly rocketed upright and said to his room: "You're turning into Louis."

That exact complacency was what was wrong with the entire court.

 

 **_Late September, 1786_ **  
**_Paris_ **

He got tired of waiting for God. It wasn't God that motivated his spirit in a sudden, fiery burst of ambition. It was the thought that he was turning into Louis. He took control after that.

He patrolled daily, his gun always on him just in case, and tuned into the whispers on the streets. The happenings. The people's attitudes. Their actions. Their words and slang and code. He eavesdropped, he followed, he asked questions in taverns, parlors, brothels, he stole uniforms and disguised himself as soldiers of every rank, sneaking in and out of the barracks. He asked people of all social classes, earning trust and gathering information.

He missed a lot in his few-but-long and miserable years of physical, mental, emotional and spiritual pain.

Apparently, Rousseau, Voltaire, and other writers America mentioned so long ago reached publication in France, even after their deaths. Their ideas were majorly popular, and all of France had been abuzz for some time. People met wherever they could go and not attract attention to discuss and debate their ideas, ask their questions, publicly incite violence against the crown.

How France missed it, he had no idea. He supposed those influences came in his bouts of Louis-hating tantrums, but at the time he thought them normal emotions. Thinking back on how strong they were, how he seriously thought about harming Louis, it scared him that they integrated so naturally into his thought processes.

It meant France was changing, and words carried weight.

Of course, nobody was actually doing anything about it except for pilfering each other. Nobody knew specifically how to address the monarchy. Robespierre, by then a celebrity, "l'Incorruptible," they called him, called for peace. Diplomacy. He often held little rallies where he called out the follies, failures, and short-comings of the crown while appealing to the people to maintain their composure and calmly work towards equality with nit-picky things like grievances. Well, ok, they were 'political caucuses,' not 'rallies'. Still illegal, but at least they sounded sophisticated. Cover the thorns with pretty petals and suddenly the rose doesn't seem so terrible.

Exactly what he told the people to do and how, France had no idea. But Robespierre was delaying what was probably both France and Louis' worst fears.

Total anarchy.

At the same time, some not-so-peaceful people were meeting, preaching the violent fall of the crown, and raising the general heat of the anger. Letting it simmer and boil, letting it fester. They met all around, but Paris was at its heart.

The other name tossed around for a while, Jacques Necker, hadn't died out yet either. France didn't like the man. When he was the director of finances, France remembered more than a few verbal scuffles about his lack of control over France's finance, and his un-projected attempts at reform. He was one of the major supporters of France's aid in America's War of Independence, and France was ruined under his watch while France himself watched Louis and Marie waste any money France did have.

His written works on his ideas for France had people chatting excitedly. They looked up to him like he was a savior of France. He made mental note of that, storing ti in the back of his mind to reference later, vowing to read some of his work and maybe write him a letter. He was kicked out of office in 1781, but with reappointment and with living up to his name, France hoped the two of them could further keep France calm.

Rumor had it that people started arming themselves, preparing for the moment when the fire-cracker would explode. When France asked why the man who told him just shrugged.

" _Je ne sais pas. Maybe self-defense, maybe assistance, depending upon who's shooting. Who knows_?"

France asked what he thought was going to happen.

"Dunno. But with how angry people are, it won't be pretty."

" _Ouais_ ," France agreed. "Are you prepared?"

The man shrugged again but tapped the side of his nose suggestively. "Listen, though, kid, you're, what, 18?"

France chuckled heartily but nodded. "Sure."

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself out there, alright? No matter what happens?"

"Where did that come from? What are you, mon Père?" he joked.

"No, I don't know. I just feel like you should be safe. You seem really familiar to me," he said sheepishly, absently drying a glass. "And I don't know, something inside me just doesn't want you to get hurt is all. Can't explain it. I feel like I know you, though. It's odd," he babbled. France knew he was trying to describe the connection the people feel with their Nation. "Just promise me you'll stay safe?"

France stared deeply into his eyes when he looked up, but softly, watching the man's eyes sparkle in wonder at the depth in France's eyes. He was looking right into French essence, the weight of centuries of experience, caught in the majesty of it and the inexplicable familiarity and peace. France smiled knowingly, understandingly, and the man absently smiled back before France looked down.

"I promise," he said. It was nice his people still felt a connection to him. He missed it after all the isolation. "What's your name?"

"Étienne."

"François."

They shook hands and sat in comfortable silence, occasionally asking and answering questions on both sides.

In the back of his mind he was itching to get to both of the rallies- Robespierre's and one of the violent ones. Maybe even go ON a bread riot to see what he could find out about movements and such. Discover the exact mindset of the people so he could formulate exactly what to do when-

If. If. If he went back to Louis. If he returned to Versailles to straighten the mess Louis made.

People began spreading an underground newspaper, _'L'ami du Peuple'_ \- friend of the people- to broadcast the actions of whatever this peoples' movement was. The motto officially became _'Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité_.

Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood. Fitting, at least, for an ideal. But people can't be trusted when put under pressure. More than likely it would bust before it ever gained any speed. France would have to keep his eyes and ears open.

L'ami du Peuple said that Robespierre's next caucus was in a few days. He promised to go.

 

 **_October, 1786_ **  
**_Bourse, Paris_ **

As he left his château, neither his pains nor his people entered his mind. He trudged through the deep-set ache in his skin and bones, dragging his feet one right after the other even though it send dull pins and needles through him. He sucked it up. He drank a lot of wine as he found it, when the room swum, when his vision turned blurry and red in little, short bursts of unadulterated rage of some mob somewhere, he stopped. He waited. He sucked it up. He wanted to hear this Robespierre speak.

So he dressed in the most nondescript clothing he owned (it was a stretch, but he managed to find a lot of beiges and browns he rubbed dirt on to make them dirty). It wouldn't do to be recognized as a wealthier member of society in expensive clothes, He'd by murdered on the spot. And then when he woke up a few minutes later, it would just cause way too many problems he wasn't ready to deal with.

It was odd. He constantly flipped personas, back and forth dizzily, empathizing one minute with the crown and courtiers, probably just as scared as he was for what was to come. If they even knew. Though, he figured, they lacked the gumption to actually do anything about it, too ensnared and encompassed in their easy and privileged lifestyles. Then another minute he'd be burning with fiery anger, resisting the urge to violently attack each pose on in the street to see if they had bread, or if they were a rich man he could steal money from, or maybe jewelry. He resisted the urge to take his gun and march directly to Versailles just to shoot Louis and Marie directly in the face, screaming their incompetence all the while.

He sometimes passed the guillotine in la Place de la Concorde. He went out of his way to the Tuileries Gardens near Champ Élysées to see it while taking his informational routes. He watched them test it with dead or even condemned men privately and unannounced so people could go on their way not expecting a real execution. They lowered the screaming, babbling, crying man's head into the slot under France's eager and watchful eye.

Sometimes the force of the blade wasn't enough. Sometimes it didn't cut all the way through. Sometimes the shaft for the blade wasn't lubricated well.

France imagined it was Louis or Marie in there. Heads dangling by a gummy thread- Marie's with her STUPID headpiece on- having to be ripped the rest of the way off. The pain they would feel if still alive. Sometimes the thoughts scared him, sickened him. They mixed with the churning of his stomach and the graphic detail with which he imagined people ripping the rest of Louis apart, keeping pieces as souvenirs, the way he imagined himself coating in this fingers in royal blood and painting his streets with it. . .

Let's just say his stomach didn't exactly enjoy his mind's little presents.

Duality was a common concept for Nations. Ties to both sides, both influencing and pushing a certain way. In fact, it was worse for Nations. They had to deal with a specific dichotomy: Human, and National. And in France's case, both of those had two more branches: Louis and the people. Like a four way intersection. In Louis' sphere of influence he had Human stability. Not perfection, but stability. He himself was surrounded by people with enough to eat, so the cries of those who went without were subdued in the back of his mind. Nationally, the general lack of thought and common sense made France itch for panic. For action. The monarchy and courtiers twiddled thumbs while the people- violently but still- got shit done. So Nationally he was ready to do whatever he had to to get his own shit done while he was there, but Louis' inaction lulled him like Marie hummed to her children at night. Subdued. Complacent. Meanwhile, in the people's sphere of influence his Human suffered . Nationally though he could do what he had been doing. Plan, gather, recover for the lost time with information and insight.

So France the country was split. So France the Nation was split. And France's own thoughts were like a little trail that branched off the center. A little trail that the city planned to put cobblestones over and pave like a real road. So they closed it off. Marked it for repair . . . and then left. The traffic was moving without that tiny trail so nobody paid it any mind. People stopped using it. There was no way to enter the normal flow of traffic from it, either, so it sat dejected and rejected.

Maybe he did this to subconsciously pick sides, chart a steady course in one direction and not stray, but he knew that no matter what he picked, that dichotomy would always be right there ready to wrap the collar around his throat, hauling him into submission of the other direction or choking him out with resistance.

He thought of all of this on his way to Robespierre's caucus, though he became majorly sidetracked.

He wasn't sure how or why. He knew the exact location. He knew where it was happening. He could count the exact number of steps it would take him to get there from where he was. Obviously, he knew Paris like the back of his hand. He could probably even pinpoint Robespierre exactly since a lot of concentrated energy was focused on the man. But he let his mind wander for a second and suddenly he made a right turn away from the plaza. He stopped, looking back the way he came, longing to turn back, but each time he went to move his leg it moved towards his new destination.

"Stop!" he commanded his legs. "Fight the duality!" He sounded like a defiant teen. Fine. He could be defiant. He took a calm, controlling breath, thought about Robespierre and, distantly, about France's future if it turned out to be another road worth pursuing. But his leg stepped forward. "Fine," he sighed defeatedly. "Duality, let's see where you take me." He couldn't pinpoint his new destination, because he didn't KNOW WHERE HE WAS GOING. Apparently something important was happening.

He could feel it after a while. When it hit him he flinched, but it was pleasantly, surprisingly warm. A lively tingle that shot down his spine and snaked all the way down his fingers and toes, more intense the closer he got. He shuddered happily with it and shrugged, deciding to trust wherever he was being led.

Lefts and rights through the streets, aware of where he was the whole time but at the mercy of his compulsion.

Finally he came upon four or five people, all sitting in an alley chat ting quietly. they all shot to their feet and glared at France, knocking the pleasant feeling away like a slap to his cheek. France gasped before he could help it and dashed behind the corner, but they saw him.

"Who's there?!" one yelled. He heard them shift off their barrels and crates. He heard the clatter of their guns. France took a second to decide- run or pursue this, run or pursue this? In a flash he went through both scenarios in his head, imagining them chasing him down, blindfolding and shooting him firing squad-style there in the street, imagining him confronting them now, outnumbered and weaker, overtaken quickly and shot in the middle of a scuffle, lying dying in the street here versus closer to his home.

He decided. He drew his own pistol and stepped out from the corner, jumping in fear as he came face to face with a dirty Parisian and the muzzle of his gun. France's own was in the man's face and they stared each other down. France hoped the fire was still alight, the glass was still sparkling like crystals in his eyes.

"Who are you?" the man demanded.

France immediately spat, " _Un Ami de la France_."

"I meant your name, dipshit!"

"You can call me _Ami de la France_. What's your name?"

The man went to grab France's dirty, unpressed cravat but France was faster. Centuries of cold instinct and bloody, gritty, hand-to-hand combat rushed back to him and he caught the man's wrist. He raised his own gun with his other hand but France planted a swift kick to the man's right hip and spun him around, wrapping his sown arm around his neck. He ran the man into the nearest wall, pressing all his weight on his back, his arm thickly choking him, his gun arm pinned uncomfortably to the wall with his cheek. He whined in protest, a guttural wheeze, as France was sure his shoulder was doing. Kicking and struggling and worming violently in pain out of necessity to his arm. But France held tight, despite the clicks of safeties and shuffles of feet. He put his own gun to the man's neck and yelled, "Stop! _Arrêtez_!" to the group, and they complied.

"Now, I heard," France hissed in his ear, "through the grapevine that you've got something planned. Something big. I want in."

Of course he had no frickin' idea what they planned.

"A-and what if we . . . s- . . . say no?" he snorted, deep, throaty, and tight. France snarled in rage and pulled his arm tighter, feeling it pull a bit out of the socket. He squealed and struggled, but France easily overpowered him, shoving him harder into the wall.

"I'm about to dislocate your shoulder. Are you really in a position to say no?"

"What grapevine?"

France shrugged. "Word travels fast and talk is cheap. It's the only thing people can afford right now."

"How do we know we can trust you? How do we know you're not a loyalist?"

France sighed, releasing his pressure on the man's back. He spun him around like he was a dancer, twirling him to untangle his arm, and slammed him back into the wall. "Look at me."

The man tried to raise his gun instead. France grabbed his wrist and slammed it against the wall over and over again until he let go. The gun skittered to the ground and France slid the man up the wall off the ground.

"Look at me!" he ordered. When his eyes slid hesitantly to France's he stared back and dimly said, " I. Am. France."

He struggled under the power of France's gaze, trapped in the swirling blue. Then he gradually went limp, and France could tell he was believing it. When humans encounter Nations he was told they describe it as everything and everybody, all at once. It's the sights of the country in their eyes, the smells and aromas about them. They were everywhere and anywhere.

"You're . . . "

" _La Personnification Nationale du Royaume de France_." The others made questioning and disbelieving sounds, but France ignored them. "And I want in."

" _L'ami de la France_?"

"Oui. _Vive la France_." France smiled coyly and the atmosphere instantly recharged with the attitude of an exciting and forbidden secret. The man nodded his approval.

" _Vive la France_. Okay. You're in."

France gently lowered him to the ground and retrieved his gun, handing it back. The next time he looked at France it was with awe, like he was some god unworthy of their attention.

"Oh, don't give me that look," France scolded, pressing the gun to his hand. "What's the plan?"

The tingle suddenly floated back into France, lifting his mood and spirits exciting him, empowering him. It made him giddy and excited as they explained their plan.

"Ok. We need bullets and weapons- gunpowder, too. We're planning on infiltrating the barracks Ave Maria. I've been told that they will be thinly spread because of other riots they want to prevent elsewhere. There's three major entry points. This one from Rue Honoré,-"

"Hold on," France said. "Why do we need weapons? Are the people planning something?"

They all shared glances and passed shrugs around their little meeting. "Not yet. Just . . . can't you feel it? Can't you feel the tension building? People are getting angrier. You never know when you'll need them. Right now it's hard to tell. Between the crown and the citizens, it's hard to tell who'll snap first. But if you want my opinion, either way people are gonna get hurt. We're out-gunned."

"Hm," France mumbled, moving on. "Are you sure you want to try and infiltrate a place so close to Pont Neuf?" he asked, mapping out the area in his head. "Rue Saint-Denis? Le Palais de Justice will be extremely, extremely well-guarded. Six or seven men won't get very far before Le Palais is notified."

"It won't be just us," one of the others said. "We're meeting other people as we go, and collecting more followers to do this job. It won't be just us."

"How many?"

"Probably 50 or 60. By the time they've sent an alarm we'd be grabbing the stuff."

France nodded his approval. "Escape routes?"

"Major roads. Same as the three major entrances: Rue Honoré, Rue Saint-Denis, Rue Montmartre. If things get dicey there's PLENTY of side routes to take to lose pursuers."

"Good."

"Or, if we're trapped completely from the north, if worse comes to worse we can jump in the Seine."

"Good!"

"Good?"

"Oui," he said, nodding excitedly. His knees pulsed, and his heart pounded, and his adrenaline started coursing through him, already anticipating the thrill of the run, the tense, chest-tightening anxiety, the fear of being caught. He smiled up at them. "Let's go."

This was the most alive he felt since he left Versailles, since he entered Paris.

His senses sharpened, hyper-aware of everything around them. Carriage doors and horses' hooves off in the distance. Shutters banging against their frames. The grey, overcast clouds that gave their mission the feeling of a night-time, extremely secret, espionage mission despite it being the middle of the day. Smells of sewage and human existence. The sharp ridges and bubbles and imperfections of the stone in the buildings they passes traveling down Rue Denis.

Maybe it was the pride they let him feel. They let him walk at the head of the group like a Moses to the Jews, leading them out of Egyptian slavery. In a way he was. He strutted a new strut that exuded the confidence and pride he felt. The success and importance of their mission. Arming the people, so they would have a back-up plan if . . .

If what? No. No asking why. It only led to him second-guessing himself. He was too far along for that.

As they picked up more and more along their planted route he could feel it growing in him like a gas lamp that had more and more oil poured in it. The atmosphere was absolutely electric. He drank it up like wine, relishing in the energy, the taste, the color.

France thought of America and how happy, how damn HAPPY he sounded. Because he challenged the system. Because he seized his rights and his freedoms. He thought of all the days he spent curled in on himself, rolling around and writhing in pain, his stomach tearing itself apart. He thought of all the times he tumbled out of bed and twitched on the floor.

The fire inside him kept growing brighter and hotter and licked at his heart. It boiled his blood. It ignited his mind, psyching him up further for the task at hand. His fists shook. His breath came in hot, angry gasps the closer they got, and at one point a growl squeezed itself from his throat. He god odd looks from the people closest to him, but he didn't care.

God, this was GREAT!

He was with his fellow Frenchmen, united by hardships and desperation and passion. Ready to defend each other. Ready to fight for Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.

France was ready too.

Ready to stand up and fight.

Enough of his life as a dog cowering in the shadows.

France. Would. Not. Die.

Vive la France.

"Who is he?" an awestruck woman said a ways behind him.

Whoever she was talking to hummed an "I don't know" noise and shrugged. "Jean's calling him 'L'ami de la France'."

He heard his name whispered, a stone-made ripple in a lake. He was definitely enjoying himself. But as they entered the district where Ave Maria was, there was something he felt at the back of his mind that began ebbing away at his excitement. He tried to ignore it, scared it would kill what he was feeling. But it was a little water drop that dripped continuously, annoyingly, on the fire he started. He corked and bottled up all this . . . whatever it was . . . and shook it up. He let it build and build until the cork was ready to blow off, but now this little freezing ice-chunk in his brain was poking holes in the seal, letting the air out.

They were cheering so loudly it was echoing in the streets and off the buildings with France at the helm. They didn't hear the steady droning of booted feet and the rattle of bayonets ahead of them. They didn't hear or notice the approaching sounds of ambush. Right as they came upon the barracks they found it in full lock-down. Doors and windows barred, guards squeezing themselves along the roof and in the windows, guns trained on them. Word reached the barracks ahead of them. They were completely prepared. As they entered the little plaza around the fortress France looked around quickly, analyzing. Escape routes? None. Every rue out of there was blocked. Outnumbered about five to one. His rally temporarily quelled. This was that little ice-chunk.

"HEY!" one of the guards yelled at the head of one of the lines. Probably the captain. France turned and saw that behind them the guards spilled from the streets, blue and white bugs under a rock. They squeezed and shoved themselves behind the crowd along the back walls, lining up in strict formation, shoving people towards the front like they were sheepdogs corralling the sheep with fear. The cheering slowly died out as the crowd noticed the raucous going on around them. The dead silence echoed almost as loudly as the cheers.

The next thing France felt was a cold chill down his spine as he looked around, trying to calculate a way out of this.

"HEY! I'm only going to say this ONCE! CLEAR OUT NOW, and NOBODY WILL GET HURT!"

France made a decision. He turned around, he turned his back to the soldiers in the barracks, staring hard at the crowd. "This is it," he told his people, breathing as calmly as he could to try and at least fake being undaunted by the threat. "We can stand together now and take what is ours. We can start a Revolution, right here, right now. We can take our control, we can free ourselves of our oppression. Are you ready?"

He got equally as resolute gazes back. He hoped that meant what he thought it meant.

"I said clear OUT!" The Captain sent an order across the plaza, and the troops raised their guns to the crowd. People gasped and screamed. "You're not allowed to convene here!"

France turned back around and glared the Captain full in the face, making a beeline for him.

"Stop right there!" he said, raising his own bayonet level with France's chest. France's adrenaline surged, as did his rage. "By order of the King, I command you to stop!" He narrowed his eyes over the bayonet at the guard, his authoritative Nation's aura surging.

Fear flicked in the guard's eyes.

"I refuse to be a slave to Louis' will anymore. Vive la France!" France spat.

The guard's finger tightened around the trigger, but France was faster. He grabbed the barrel and pushed it up into the air as the shot rang out. As soon as that bullet whizzed into the air, all hell broke loose.

The crowd charged forward and attacked the other guards.

France kind of remembered ripping the gun from the Captain's grip and knocking him out with the butt, shooting down a few others who tried to attack him with in seconds.

He barely remembered the gunshots, the cries of alarm on both sides. The actual infiltration was a mixed blur of stabbing the remaining guards. Scaling the walls and breaking the doors in and screams and squelches and rattles and flashes and bangs and snarls and-

He barely remembered leading the crowd to the richer part of Paris, where many noblemen lived.

He clearly remembered smashing a window with the bayonet.

He remembered nothing after that.

 

 **_November, 1786_ **  
**_Opéra, Paris_ **  
**_France's Château_ ******

 

 

_'Austria,_

_Shut. Up. For the love. of. God. shut. the hell. up._

_And mind your own damn business._

_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

 

 

_'America,_

_You silly, ignorant, stupid child! You think that just because you threw a little tantrum and tossed Britain's tea in the water you know what Revolution is? You think because your little minds skimmed the surface of a Rousseau text that you know what Enlightenment is? You think that because you broke from one tyrant and appointed your own you know what anarchy is? Do you?_

_You don't even know what freedom is. You don't even know what it means to rebel. You cannot, and will not ever comprehend what it is to toss aside everything- everything you used to know. Your wildest dreams could never imagine true liberation. You didn't feel King George's fires' heat as they burned. You didn't watch his bridges burn. You fought on your own land but you didn't fight George. You fought Britain. You fought the tyrant manifesto but not the tyrant himself._

_So don't pretend you know anything at all about liberté. Don't pretend your chains to George were heavier than mine are to Louis. Don't act like you breaking your chains was some magnificent and admirable feat._

_Sure, soak it all in. Go on and let people think you're to be the poster child for the word 'Revolution.'_

_You had it easy._

_I know what liberté, egalité, fraternité is._

_Come on over, stop by, if you want a taste of the real thing._

_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France_

_P.S. Oh, and don't forget, too, that without MY aid you'd probably be living in Britain's basement.  
Food for thought.'_

 

 

_'Canada,_

_Everything's fine. I'll write to you as soon as it's all over._

_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

 

 

_'Spain,_

_Thank you for the tomatoes. I really do appreciate it. I'm fine, everything's fine. Don't worry._

_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

 

 

_'Prussia,_

_The trio'll be back together soon. I promise. There're just some things I need to take care of._

_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

 

 

_'Monsieur Necker, mon ami,_

_It's been a while, non? I know this letter is coming out of nowhere, but I need to bring something to your attention, if you're not already aware. Paris is on the verge of-'_

France paused in his writing. What he wanted to write was 'Revolution.' But the implications of that word were great and heavy. He thought of shots ringing out and screaming and angry mobs and guillotines and he wasn't ready yet. He wasn't emotionally ready to think about it, let alone handle it if it came around. The little riots he went on were okay because they had different emotions tied to them. He felt lively. Revolution sounded miserable, sounded like death.

Less-strong connotational synonyms? Revolt? Riot? Riot would work. That implied a one-and-done deal.

 

_'-riot. The public unrest is nearly tangible, and I fear anarchy is imminent. Word has it that you're popular with the people. The people look up to you as something of a savior. I read some of your breakdowns of France's financial situation and I agree, that I believe you're the man able to help. I think H.R.M. Louis XVI could use a man like you to help him fix things before they're beyond saving. I think Louis needs you to keep tempers in order and protect citizens and officials both with reform. France desperately needs it, and if Louis can feel the tension in these streets he will be willing to listen._

_My point is this: Louis is going to call me back to court soon. When he does, I would like to know if you would be willing to come with me, based on everything I've said above. You would be re-instated as master of finances, with a higher wage than the one you received before (this I will negotiate with sa Majesté). Your job will be to instate financial reform however you have to. I don't care. Just take the burden off the Third Estate and help sa Majesté see reason. Before it's too late for everybody._

_Again, I know this is coming out of nowhere. I know it's much to ask of you. I know I may be over presumptuous of your willingness to return to that connard. Just consider this, I beg of you. Let me know of your response soon, so when sa Majesté writes to me I can have my bargaining chips ready.'_

He sounded just as black-mailing and conniving as the other court members. He didn't care at this moment. He was desperate. He just hoped Jacques Necker saw reason and decided to come back with him. With two of the most grounded people next to Louis, who, if he was desperate enough to call France back to court, would be willing to listen, then maybe, just maybe, France had a chance at saving himself.

Don't ask him how he knew Louis would call him back. He just felt, in some distant part of him, the very back of his heart, like something was changing. Maybe word reached Louis about all the riots and all the looting and all the caucuses and revolts and Robespierre.

 

_'Thank you so much for your time. Sorry to bother you._

_Francis Bonnefoy'_

 

 **_December, 1786_ **  
**_Opéra, Paris_ **  
**_France's Château_ **

L'ami de la France struck every single district. Even the poorer ones. Not for looting those districts, but to gather people. His name spread. And spread fast.

Four whole years since Louis forced him to leave. Four whole years since the start of France's deterioration, country and Nation both. Four years of a frozen, stagnant, and sickly state due to Louis' lack of action. Four years of watching France crumble. Too bad he only learned how to fight back this year.

 

_'France,_

_Woah, woah woah! Easy, there, France! You're staring to sound a little crazy. Don't get me wrong, I love it! But don't do anything rash, okay? The peoples' pride and patriotism fills you up! I understand! But you gotta keep your head as a Nation. Don't do anything you may regret later. It's different for you cuz you're talking about civil war, here. And who knows what that does to a Nation's psych? Just be careful and rational. You're on more unstable ground than I was, as you so kindly pointed out._

_Aaaaaaand, no offense, but I know what the tone of your letter said, and I don't think regicide is the answer._

_I maintain my offer to help you however you need. Don't be afraid to ask me for help if you need it._

_Alfred F. Jones; The United States of America'_

 

France's crusty, irritated eyes peeled open to the sound of banging on the front door.

" _Allez-vous en!_ " he grumbled. He didn't want to deal with it. Too tired. His lids were too heavy to keep open for longer than a few seconds so he let them drop anyway, determined to ignore the brass knocker's cadence.

He succeeded for all of three seconds.

**BAM! BAM! BAMBAMBAM!**

"QUOI?!" France screamed at the top of his lungs. Who the hell would show up at his door that urgently?! The only people that pounded like that were-

Sheer terror grabbed his spine with its tight, icy fingers and wouldn't let go. Oh my God. It was the Parisian Guard. They found him. Somebody saw him leading the riots and turned him in. Someone found out HE was L'ami de la France. They were coming to arrest him. Panic seized his chest, and a brief image of a forced march to the guillotine, PRIDE of France, flashed in his mind.

No, no, no!

He was wide awake now.

He jumped from his bed and frantically looked around his room for his pistol. Where did he hide that? He kicked empty bottles and loose papers and worn clothes aside in a crazed dash for his trunk. He pulled on the lock as hard as he could and snapped it, diving in and tossing aside old, miscellaneous things he kept ever since he was born as a Frankish Nation. The Treaty of Verdun, officially separating him from the Holy Roman Empire, old tunics, a tiara, books and scrolls, old Annuls, Treaty of Aix, French Medieval Seals, his full set of plate armor as well as Jeanne's, her sword, Jeanne's Livre d'heures, the royal seals of the Borgogne Dynasty, "New France" and Canada archives, Treaty of Westphalia, Jeanne's tunic over her armor-

**BAMBAMBAM!**

He let out an involuntary shriek and dug faster, ripping papers and breaking knick-knacks left and right. No, not in there.

**BAMBAMBAMBAM!**

Oh, no. They were coming for him. He ran to the armoire and tore the drawers out, digging to the very bottom of each one and throwing it aside carelessly when he came up empty.

Oh, God, he could NOT go to La Bastille or the guillotine. He dropped to the floor and peeked under the bed.

No pistol.

He let out a growl of momentary despair and helplessness, running to the drawers of his vanity. Five or six drawers, empty.

He gave his trashed room another desperate once-over before his eyes rested on his bed. Of course. He slept with it under his pillow now. An utterly pathetic but beautiful feeling of relief pried the terror away from his spine. He barked out an elated laugh and snatched up the gun, checking the chamber. Fully loaded. Gunpowder already loaded too.

**_BAMBAMBAMBAMBAM-_ **

France awkwardly crept down the stairs, aiming the pistol at the door. He steadied his shaking hand by resting his wrist on the wrist of his free hand.

"Francis Bonnefoy, if you're there, open up!"

"State your name and business first!" France called. He couldn't keep his voice from trembling. "I- I've got a pistol aimed!"

He expected the guard to hear that last bit and break down the door to show down with him. So when an equally tiny voice squeaked out, France was caught completely by surprise.

"AH! U-uh, André Machette, o-official courier of our King, Louis XVI! I brought you all the letters when you were sick? Remember? Please don't shoot me! I have a very urgent message for you from the King! Please open up!"

"A-André?" His paranoia screamed "LIAR!" so loudly in his head France almost pulled the trigger anyway. André didn't know how lucky he was that rationality and calm, tranquil analysis won the battle at the last minute. Recognition clicked. "Oh, mon Dieu! André!"

France sprinted down the last few stairs and unlocked the new locks he bought. He threw open the door and grabbed the man's ruff, hauling him inside and pulling him into a tight hug. " _Dieu merci!_ " he huffed. " _J'ai pensé que tu étaits la garde! J'ai eu peur! Tellement peur!_ "

André Machette was officially France's new favorite person. He hugged him as tightly as he could, completely oblivious to the dangerous shade of blue the man's face was turning.

"La garde?" André gasped. "F-Francis! I'm happy to see you too, b-but . . . Let go."

France released him from his death grip, but instead of letting him go completely, he held him at arm's length to look his saving grace up and down to make sure he was real, and he wasn't hallucinating. It was, in fact, NOT the guard coming to take him away.

André glanced nervously around, gaze finally settling uncomfortably on the gun. "Why do you have a pistol?"

" . . . Oh," France said dumbly. He forgot he was holding it. He forced a laugh but André knew it was false. France quickly set the gun down on the stair.

"Why would you think I was the guard? Are you alright? You're not in trouble, are you?"

"Oui, non! Never better!" he said lightly. "You have a letter?"

"Ooooui. Here," André said slowly, scrutinizing France as he handed over the folded parchment.

"A letter from Louis? How EXCITING!" France said, still giddy from the fact that he dodged the worst case scenario. "Well, ok, let's see what Louis has to say!" France tore the seal as roughly as he could. He flipped it open, expecting the usual batch of royal snark. To his surprise, 'I hope this letter reaches you well in Paris,' did not greet him.

What WAS in the letter crushed his mood even faster.

 

_'France,_

_If you happen to read this before you burn it, please know that the first thing I'd like to do is offer my sincerest apologies. it was a mistake to send you away, and I know that now, four years late. Please, I'm begging you, you must come back to court. I need you; Parliament is not listening to me anymore. Anything I try to pass to help the people is rejected immediately._

_The riots have reached the town of Versailles. Despite the distance of the Palace from the city, when the nights are quiet and the stars shine, you can hear the breaking glass and see the gun smoke._

_France, I'm scared. I'm scared for Marie, scared for the children, scared for myself. I'm a disaster. I want to help, I really do._

_So I'm thinking of disbanding Parliament. But I need you to be there if I do that. I've no idea what to do on my own, and I fear the slightest mistake will set the people off. I cannot do this on my own._

_Please, France. Please._

_Come back to Versailles._

_Louis'_

Wow. This was what he was waiting for! Louis obviously poured his heart into that letter- there wasn't even a fancy signature or seal. In an instant the euphoria he felt died, brutally bloodied and murdered by Louis' serenity. He was expecting this, and still he was shocked in an odd way.

Was Louis asking for France's help in earnest? Was he actually willing to listen? The thought was both tantalizing and laughable at the same time. Could France actually return to Versailles with the hope that things would be different? Could France even muster the energy to hope anyway? He'd be a fool. He thought he'd be ready. Even that letter to Jacques . . . he seriously thought he was ready.

There was that thing again, that hope. What was hope to an immortal being like a Nation? He never got his answer. He supposed it was like religion: a sentiment reserved for people whose lives were fleeting. People who prayed desperately for things to get better before they met their ill-timed and blind-siding end. It took total collapse for a Nation to fade like Rome. So what was hope?

No, he knew what hope was. He remembered from his revelations before Notre Dame. Nations could have it, but they didn't need it. Nice to have, absolutely, but was it worth clinging to in THIS circumstance after only feeling it for a fleeting fraction of a second? Was it worth risking heart-stomping, stomach-churning disappointment? Could he really go back like he thought he wanted to? Could he really join hopes of a better France with someone like Louis?

Maybe he was actually preparing to do what France needed. Maybe without Parliament, and this newfound, admittedly too-little-too-late respect for France and his judgement, he could fix this mess. Maybe he could even turn this around so that something, anything about Louis' reign wold not be a disaster. With France at his side, Louis could do it.

France laughed at himself. He didn't even want to risk his physical, psychological, mental stability if it all went to crap. He thought he would be. But standing right in front of him, facing him now, he realized he didn't even really want to look at it.

Absolutely not.

France was too far gone. He wanted to stay with the people now. He wanted to be a beacon for them. He wanted to be their Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. Vive la France was his motto now.

He should never have been allowed to sink this low. He should never have reached the point where he constantly heard voices, every waking minute: the voices of the people, a chorus, no, a cacophony, a raucus, whispering and screaming at the same time, faceless, genderless, ageless, shouting, both angry, violent, revolutionary things and pleas, horrible, desperate cried telling him to do something, help them, save them, please, please just do something! They should never have been able to grow so loud to the point where he was paranoid; couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't exist unless he was on a riot. They mingled inside of his head, seducing and beckoning and touching and clouding and mixing up his own thought processes until he couldn't sort out which were his and which were the peoples'. They told him to hate Louis more than he already did, hate him more passionately than he ever could on his own. They told him to kill Louis. They made a fire of loathing burn so fervidly in him . . .

He should've never his the point where they actually made him entertain those notions! When he actually ded sleep he couldn't count the number of times he saw gruesome images of Louis' head on a pike, Louis tortured in a jail cell . . . and many . . . unpleasant things.

France should never have gotten to the point where he needed the riots. Where the forceful destruction of another man's livelihood and the murder of his own guards was the only way to feel like he was making any difference, his only way of silencing the cries and pleas, his only respite from madness.

He should never have been allowed to say that he liked the violence. They shouldn't be the only source of unbridled uninterrupted joy. It was so wrong that he lost himself, lost all sensation including pain, in the rallies like he lost himself with Richelle that one night forever ago at the party. He loved it. He connected with them on every level. He relished in the bliss that came with it.

It is said that the grapes are always better in the other vineyard. Well he tasted both. And he knew which tasted better.

What if he ded go back? What if being away from Paris became his saving grace? What if reversing the situation, leaving the problems in Paris for Versailles, offered him the same, so-glorious peace he felt in his first year in Paris? What if the distance alone silenced the voices, and made him feel back in control of his own self again?

Pft. He could barely sort out his own feelings anymore.

"' _The old France is gone_ ,'" he thought, anger flaring. "' _The bastard had his chance- more than enough chances. And he failed. Let him sort out his own mess!_ '"

He was done hoping. That died as France died. Once you taste the fine wines, everything else tastes dull.

The question came down to this: was the hope of a great reward later enough to make him abandon the short-term, but less substantial prize?

"Francis?" André asked, startling him. He forgot the other man was even there. "Louis hoped you'd have an answer for him today."

 

**_'Louis,_ **

**_I want Parliament gone. Totally disbanded. You can keep them at the Palace if you want, but from now on, I am to be your only consultant. I want the final say in everything you want to pass, and if I bring something up, it better get done immediately. As in, within a week. I want Jacques Necker restored to the head of finances to you. I find his opinions sound and worth trusting, and on top of that, it will placate the people for a while considering they trust him._ **

**_If my demands are not met, I am gone. I will take my place and take up arms among the people, and get done what needs done by whatever means necessary. Even with their force i I have to._ **

**_These are my terms. Do not expect me back unless you intend to agree with all of them._ **

**_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_ **


	6. Chapter 6

**_November, 1786_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_ **  
**_France's Bedchambers_ **

_'Francis,_

_I would be remiss if I said I was not surprised by the arrival of your letter. However, I was delighted by the content._

_I would be glad to be reinstated. I'm pleased you read my works as well - all of those ideas I hold, I mean every single one of them._

_Unfortunately, H. R. M. Louis XVI has seen fit to replace me with Charles Alexandre de Calonne. He would have to be summarily removed if I am to return to the position with my full influence. What's more, carriage fare is not cheap. The one thing I am looking forward to the least should I be able to return is the actual move. Having to cart my belongings back to Versailles really will be an extensive labor. I will expect a contribution from you of at least 60%, if not more, to cover the expenses of my move. A negotiation may be made for less with decent enough bartering, but I expect some form of compensation for my efforts._

_As I mentioned before, I am extremely eager to return to Versailles and assist in France's stability in any way I can._

_Merci beaucoup,  
Jacques Necker_

A banker, huh? He sounded more like a black market salesman after that letter. Still, though, France obliged, promising to contribute 70% to be absolutely sure Necker would return when France convinced Louis to call him.

France forgot about Calonne. Probably the one and only problem he never took into account. He didn't know the man well, either. Well, ok, France could improvise. He would first try out this Calonne character and see what he was like. If France disliked his ideas he could have him out quickly while Louis still ate out of France's hand.

"Put the chest there, at the foot of the bed," he told the servants and baggage handlers he employed to help him with the massive wood box. France picked up his end with little effort while the four of them strained and groaned under the weight of the other.

"M . . . _mon Dieu_ . . . What do you HAVE in here, Monsieur?" one of them asked, voice tight and clipped from the effort.

"Only the necessities, Monsieur," he replied back. They SLAMMED the chest down on the floor and France nodded his approval. "Merci beaucoup, Messieurs."

"Do you need any help unpacking, sir?"

"Oh, non, non, non! Merci!" he said, waving them off.

As they left the last person out the door turned back and said, "It's good to have you back, Monsieur Bonnefoy."

France smiled and nodded his thanks, regretting the fact that he couldn't remember his name. Thinking back, he always made sure to show his thanks to the staff at Versailles - they did a selfless, thankless job, and basic human nature mixed with the very beginning of Enlightenment thinking demanded decency towards all people. Unfortunately, inherent decency wasn't a widely known virtue in feudalism. The respect you were due was dictated by birth. France wondered what all they put up with in his absence.

He inhaled deeply, changing gears, his heart happily recalling the verdant perfumes of Versailles. Flowers in every vase of every size, every smell, and every color. Irises, eucalyptus, echinacea, the crisp air from the massive gardens. They all mixed pleasantly with the shining springtime sun and pinkish tint of his old room and actually did much to raise his spirits. It wasn't home, not by a long shot. Paris didn't even feel like home after a while. But it was new and it was different, another clean slate. He felt refreshed.

He turned back to his bags but wasn't ready to take on unpacking yet. If France was being honest, on the carriage ride to the Palace, he planned out his entire day, and every possible encounter with Louis and every variation of it. If Louis met him outside at the door, France would be cordial and pleasant. If Louis said A or B, France would react with C or D. But he would stay amiable at Louis' efforts to get off his ass and greet him. If Louis came to his room after he got his belongings moved in he would be a little terse with him, but sure, he still made an effort.

Ok, Louis already missed option 1. He still had a chance to fulfill option 2.

So he couldn't relax, despite the tranquility of the moment. Couldn't sit still. He still felt ready to expect someone. Unpacking felt too immersive of a task. He waited and waited, pacing around his room, preparing dialogue.

"' _Where is he . . . where is he . . . He should've walked in by now! Ok! So he'll probably get here and act serious. He'll probably be too embarrassed to look me in the face so he'll clasp his hands behind his back and say, 'France.' . . . Maybe you don't now him as well as you used to. Not that you ever knew him._ '"

Anyway, "' _Should I choose to get upset with him I'll say, "Louis," just as rude or non-committal as he is. And . . ._ '"

With each taking second he became more and more insecure. He wasn't coming, was he? Why did he honestly expect Louis at all? Louis wasn't a decent person. He wouldn't do the decent thing.

30 minutes later his gentle pacing morphed into angry fuming. His stomach churned in fury. He planned out his whole day, but the one thing he didn't plan for was Louis totally neglecting to acknowledge his arrival.

He was not shocked, but he was upset. And it really hurt, more than he thought.

Something inside of him - he wouldn't call it hope anymore; more like defiance of emotional pain - had him recall the first time Louis walked through the doors as King. He kept France waiting then, too, but he came, right? There was still a chance.

"' _He'll be here. Just calm down, France. See to your unpacking!_ >'"

He forced himself to take a deep, loooong, calming breath. He shook out his shoulders and arms, cracked his fingers and neck. Moving to his bags, he unloaded his heavy and expensive petticoats, every color like a shock and explosion against his plain, bland, white bedsheets. He folded all of his matching breeches, rolled all his socks. He swore he would stay alert for Louis' potential arrival, but before long he became mentally invested, dutifully committing to keeping this drawers neat. By the time he folded his pants and hung his coats and placed his brush and all his personal effects on the vanity (they had replaced the mirror he broke before he left.), even brushed his hair, the rest of his day was done. Louis wasn't coming.

France flopped back against his again-empty bed, crestfallen and dismayed that Louis negated him completely. Old (in Louis' case lazy) habits die hard.

He checked the time piece. 18:30. It would be dinnertime soon. No, Louis wasn't coming.

And then, to his delight, three light raps struck his door. He froze, utter disbelief grabbing hold of his muscles for a moment. "He came! Oh, c'est très bien!" All anger forgotten, he jumped up and ran to the door. "Maybe I was wrong to doubt him so much! Sure, he's a little . . . whatever he is, but at least he's trying to care!"

He turned the handle, addressing him before he even had the door open. "Louis-"

It was a butler.

"O-oh. D . . . Désolé, Monsieur," he offered flatly.

"Quite alright, Monsieur," he said, bowing to France. "Dinner will be served at 7:00 tonight."

"I suppose Louis is calling me specifically, then?"

"Oui. I was told to tell you personally, not with a call card."

"Hm. D'accord. Merci beaucoup."

As he freshened up he seriously considered not going. Maybe stopping by the kitchens instead to sneak a bit of bread. Why did he owe Louis the respect when he wasn't offering France any? Every time he thought about skipping, though, his own guilt weighed down on his shoulders and made his chest ache. He still had an obligation, and a desire to see Louis, plus he would give Louis some dirt against him to use if he skipped.

Ok, so he couldn't skip. But he could be late, right? A small act of defiance without completely damaging his own end of the fresh start.

He simply took a ridiculously long time to get ready.

France first opted for a vibrant, pastel green with a faded baby blue trim. The sleeves of the coat folded widely back instead of the usual straight sleeve, with three huge buttons clasping it together in a crisp edge. The quiet blue color made his eyes seem brighter. "Unfortunately," when he found a blue vest to go under it he "suddenly realized" that the blues didn't match! Oh, calamity! Plus, he didn't really feel like green and blue anymore. He hung the vest and jacket back up and tried a dark purple, on the other side of the color spectrum. The whole coat was embroidered with swirls and patterns of different colors. Mauve, navy, green, yellow, red, and nearly every deviation from those. France decided to accent the navy blue rather than go with the matching embroidered vest. It looked too busy.

He changed into the purple pants, but oh darn! He should've put his stockings on first! France had to strip down again, and decided that, hey it had been a few months now, he should change his shirt.

So once he had a nice, clean shirt on he pulled on his navy socks and tightened the garters, then he again donned his purple pants. His shirt had to be tucked in perfectly. No creases or bulges. France repeatedly buttoned and unbuttoned his breeches to tuck, untuck, re-tuck, relay, untuck, re-tuck his shirt. Ok! Perfect!

Next, the vest. Or . . . should he wear a waistcoat? They were a little longer . . . and would hide his shirt if it came untucked . . . he checked thoroughly to make sure he didn't have one to match and when he was confident, he pulled on the navy vest and buttoned every single button. It didn't have colored trim, so he didn't have to worry about matching at all!

Now, what color cravat? Mmmm, what color? Ah, how wonderful it felt to put so much effort into fashion! He missed looking beautiful. He missed pampering himself.

Hmmm, plain white wouldn't look quite right against all the dark colors. Well, maybe - if he wore the white one he had it would look crisp and fresh. But it still wouldn't tie all the colors together. A mauve or wine color would. Yeah! Good think he had a silk one in that color! Ok, tying it: did he want the collar of his shirt to fold over or stay up around his chin? He checked both and decided that no matter what, folded over looked generally more put together.

God, he was going to look beautiful!

Wrapping the cloth around his neck twice, he rolled one tail around the other, pulling it tight against his adam's apple. He spent some time playing with the lengths, making sure they both were perfectly even. When he was satisfied he tucked the knot up into the wrap. Oh. He guessed his collar was hidden anyway by the cravat.

Perfect with the navy! Now for the overcoat! He gently shrugged it on, analyzing the way the colors matched and meshed and drew the eye. Navy was a great choice! He looked like a masterpiece! He could kiss himself!

France checked the timepiece again. 19:14. Hah! As if he were ready to go! He still had to do his hair! The most important part of the outfit. Anybody in nice clothes could look dirty if his hair was a mess! He moved to the full-length mirror to the vanity, inspecting and fluffing his gold curls. Ugh. Imaging if he got LICE, he thought, face actually curling up in disgust. What do they do for people with lice? Don't they have to . . . sha . . . sha-sh-

Shave their heads? Oh, Mon Dieu! He didn't want to think about it! He shuddered violently, running his fingers affectionately through his hair until they tangled in a ratty knot. Oooh, non non non!

He started with the back, turning the brush upside down to brush out that knot on the underside. He had to pull, tug, and, admittedly, rip a little, but as soon as he got the knot out he brushed the whole rest of his head and then some, even finger-combing after to be 100% sure his hair was knot-less. Brushing the front back again, he looped the purple ribbon around a few times, then tied it into a beautiful knot. Yeah. Stunning. He was beautiful. Just beautiful! He wished he could take an instant portrait of himself, right then and preserve it forever.

Finally he felt ready. He pulled on his black heeled shoes and checked the timepiece. 7:31. Ouch. Just the time he wanted. Enough to be horribly rude and defiant, but not enough for serious repercussions. His outfit bolstered his confidence. Plus, they'd be in public. He didn't have the energy to duel at ten paces with Louis in front of everyone else. He suspected Louis didn't have the energy either, supporting his case. Distantly he wondered if this was . . . residual anger or his own thoughts and actions. Frankly, he didn't care.

With each step he took towards the dining hall, though, as his feet shortened the distance, as he covered each meter to Louis, he couldn't keep his roiling stomach and fluttering heart contained. They choked away his excitement and waned his confidence. Deep down, despite his best efforts, he was actually nervous to see Louis again. No plan, no pretense. He wasn't ready.

"' _Hide it, France!_ '" he hissed to himself.

Too late. He was at the doors.

He flipped his ponytail. He fluffed his cravat. He raised his chin. He timed it perfectly so he didn't have to break stride as the porters opened the door. Strode in expecting the first person he met eyes with to be Louis.

Disappointed again. Louis' head of the table faced away from the door. His back was to France. The eyes he met belonged to the courtiers. In one creepy motion every head swiveled towards him in perfect unison. Every side of the table glared at him with mixes of shock, disgust, indignance, they wore sneers, they chided, tongues clicked, eyes rolled, heads shook, with enough malice that chills ran down France's arms. He resisted the urge to shudder.

Not ready. Unprepared. Caught, for once in his life, with nothing to do, to say, no way to react. Afraid. The fragile wall he constructed crumbled on top of him under the fists of their spite. He submitted. He dropped his eyes to his shoes.

"Francis! How nice of you to join us, finally! I hope you don't mind, but we didn't wait for you," Louis said flatly without turning around.

"N-" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. " _Non, Votre Majesté_ , not at all."

"Come here. Let me look at you."

France crossed the floor to the corner of the table at Louis' side, eyes still to the floor. He dropped to a knee.

"How long has it been, four years? I see your sense of fashion is as impeccable as it was those four years ago."

"Merci," France uttered. The tension was ready to snap, France could feel it. It built in his chest, it clotted his nerves and filled his mind with pressure until it ached. Louis' hand snaked into the top of France's vision as he offered his hand to France. The non-verbal reminder to France of where his place really was, so the Nation took it softly and kissed the ring on his finger and dropped it.

"Look at me, Francis."

"' _Get ready,_ '" France warned himself. "' _He's going to be rude._ '" Despite his huge, preparatory breath his shoulders tensed as his gaze traveled up the trim of his blue silk coat. He prepared himself for the same ferocity in his gaze that was in the courtiers' eyes. The resentment. The nuisance. He swore the whole table held is breath, waiting for the exact same thing.

But instead of hatred in the features, instead of negativity, France was pleasantly shocked to see amity. There was softness in the grayish blue eyes, relief. Absolute relief. He was surprised to even see that Louis was smiling a tiny bit. An awkward, tentative, questioning half-smile stretched across France's own face back at him, crystallin blue meeting for once, just meeting with soft blue, not fighting.

Louis casually signaled for him stop stand, and as he did Louis stood too. Everybody in the room rose up as well out of respect to Louis. "Francis Bonnefoy, it's wonderful to see you," he said sincerely. "I am delighted and relieved that you're back. More than I can say. This country needs help, her people need help, and I suspect you're just the man we need in such a desperate time." France opened his mouth for a cordial, stiff reply, but before he could answer Louis pulled France into a tight hug.

"U-uh, I'm glad to be back. It's wonderful to see you, too," he stammered. Louis pulled away and gently grasped France's forearms to shake, then gestured to the empty place at the table.

"' _S'il vous plaît, asseyez-vous._ "

"Merci, Mon Roi," he said happily.

"Majesté, you didn't tell us Monsieur Bonnefoy would be joining us," some courtier blurted out.

France's head snapped towards the man that said it. "Désolé, but I don't believe we've met," he spat harshly, "Who are you? Ah! On second thought," he snootily interrupted. "I don't care." So his sarcasm wasn't completely gone! He hadn't lost all of his bite. Good. He had hope yet he'd be able to defend himself. He may need the fire. "Ma Reine," he chirped pleasantly to her across the table, changing the subject. "You look wonderful! These four years have treated you well!" he flattered.

She politely nodded her thanks.

"Last I saw of you, Bonnefoy," the obnoxious man started again. "You were leaving Versailles in a coach bound for Paris!" "What are you doing back?" he asked haughtily.

The mood died, shot by his malice. Silverware stopped moving, and everyone stared anxiously at France, waiting for his reply.

"For your INFORMATION, Sa Majesté requested my presence here again. Why are you here?"

"..."

"Any thing else? Non? Good!"

The staff came and served France, and he ate happily, pleased by Louis' amicability, appreciation, and pleasant conversation of what was happening in Paris. (He gave the censored version of course, for the dinner table). But still made it seem bad enough to garner Louis' stern, concentrated gaze. It seemed he was finally desperate enough to listen to France. Finally ready. He ate his fill for the first time in a while.

Louis was going to work with him.

Things were going to change.

Things were going to get better.

So he thought.

 

**_November, 1786_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles_ **

Returning to Versailles was the oddest experience France ever had as a Nation.

Francis Bonnefoy, people's fiery advocate, crazed with furious passion, L'ami de la France, leader of the Parisian riots, practicer of violent freedom, indeed started to drift away while he stepped back into France's shoes - calm, confident, level-headed, connoisseur of diplomatic solutions. His emotional and psychological link to the people, the human that lied dormant in all the Nations, no longer took precedence. Gradually, the cries of the people started to die out. He found they were quiet enough that he could sleep again. Even his physical pain turned into a regular joint stiffness. It was Paris in reverse. Instead of energizing him to fight the pain he felt empty, abandoned without his people.

He still felt their emotions, but they no longer influenced him. They were just dully THERE, like a birthmark you never noticed until that moment: now impossible to ignore, but not bothersome. No passion, no energy. Just dead words.

He still got the odd flare here and there. Once, about the second week he was back he told Louis he was ready to disband Parliament now that the settled in, Louis actually hesitated. He paused mid-cleaning of his hunting rifle. Louis actually had the nerve to sigh tiredly at him. France knew what was coming. The falter. The delay. France turned on his best glare he usually reserved for England, hopefully intimidating Louis out of it. The King looked up into France's face and winced at the ferocity but instead of holding his tongue and submitting he just didn't look at France as he said it.

"France, I don't know if-"

"Don't you DARE back out of this!" France spat at him.

"But I just don't know if-"

"You don't know anything! How do you think we got here?!" he yelled at him. "You told me yourself you don't trust them. You promised me you would do whatever I asked if I came back!"

"France, please understand that I need-"

France wasn't in the mood to hear about Louis' needs. Before he could help it a deluge of rage cascaded through the flood gates of his mind. He turned his back and cut Louis off.

"France! Please!"

Louis' winey voice set France's teeth on edge.

"I don't want to just SEND them away, yet! I'm second guessing the whole thing-"

France wanted to hurt Louis.

Just for a second, but it was enough. Suddenly the same sort of rage he felt while he was taking control of Paris shot into his spine. Red hot, like a fire poker, it jolted through his nerves and spread to his mind instantly, blocking out rationality for just a second, but it was enough. He snatched the wine bottle up off the near table and threw it as hard as he could at his idiot King. He was lucky enough to duck under the throw, so the bottle shattered against the wall behind him, red dripping down the wall like blood.

The sound of the glass was enough to shock France out of his anger. The violent, hot anger was instantly replaced with a cold chill that spread down, numbing his legs rather than his head. Louis looked up fearfully at him, arms still spread protectively over his face and France shook his head in cold regret. " _D-désolé . . . désolé . . . Majesté,_ " he breathed, backing away palms up in a gesture of retreat.

"What is wrong with you?!" Louis roared. "That wine was expensive!"

"' _WHAT?!_ '" France screamed to himself. He dropped his arms. He narrowed his eyes at Louis. He slumped in defeat. The wine was his first concern? All he could do was blink at Louis in disbelief. " _Incroyable_ ," he muttered under his breath, turning and striding from the room. Calonne happened to be walking in and as France passed he hissed, "YOU talk to him!"

He knew he said he would leave. He remembered the feeling of each pen stroke as he transcribed his threat. Not leaving was only giving Louis the idea that France would let him walk all over him and he would still stay. Why he didn't leave, France couldn't entirely say for sure. He wanted to after that, he so very wanted to, but something prevented him from leaving Something deep in his gut. He ventured to guess it was a Nation thing. Something unspoken in the core of a Nation. It tugged at and jerked his insides around every time he though about leaving. About stepping across the gates into the countryside. He got his time away, but now that he was here, he was supposed to do what was best for France as the Nation.

So basically, since he couldn't leave, and Louis was back to his old self, France just lazed around Versailles, a lot. Bringing Louis' promise into ever single utterance, challenging Louis' authority in the most passive-egressive ways he could after Louis' week long refusal to see him due to the wine incident. He was stagnant once again. He was lazy. He was everything he hoped to avoid by coming back. He could do nothing while Parliament was there - even now Louis was still too-easily swayed by the last person he talked to. He was walking on eggshells.

He even begged Marie to talk to him at one point.

"Oh, France, you know I don't like the politics-" she said pettily in reply.

"I don't care!" he shouted loudly. She looked around in alarm.

"France-"

"Listen to me," he whispered, gripping her wrist tightly. He looked around for anybody who would over hear but the servants' bustle wouldn't take them near the two. When his gaze settled back on hers he put as much intensity in his eyes as he could. He whispered harshly to her, "Listen to me! Do you want uprisings? Do you want the people to hate you more? Do you WANT your empire to crumble?! That's what'll happen if you don't convince him to listen to me! If you don't convince him to help. If things don't change soon the Parisians are going to revolt! They're arming themselves - with more than words. They raid, they steal, they scrape by. I've lived their pain! I've felt their fear! My connection to them will always be deeper than Louis' ever will be, no matter what he or Parliament thinks! They attacked me. Their own NATION! They're that desperate! You do not understand them like I do" (Even he didn't understand them; Notre Dame could attest to that. But details, details). "I know how to fix France! And it's with them! Make Louis reconcile with them! Because you do not want revolts on your hands! I've been on some." At that, she recoiled in surprise but he continued, "They'll be violent, they'll be bloody, and they'll target YOU!"

She was shocked, but he saw it in her eyes that she wasn't making the big connections. She wasn't comprehending the full weight of his words. She felt removed from it all, like it could never touch her. This was some juicy piece of gossip to her.

"If you think you're above all of this you're wrong. Tell him how serious this is. Tell him. Don't tell him I went on the riots - he'll only find reason to distrust me. And don't tell him the people attacked me, either. I don't mean enough to him for him to take it into account. But tell him everything else. I've already told him, but maybe hearing it from you . . . Just think. Think about the possibilities of an armed public."

As if in response his own chest tightened.

As the tension in Paris tightened.

 

**_Late November, 1786  
L'orangerie, Les Jardins de Versailles_ **

The Orangerie Gardens beat lazing around the palace. Any day. France tried to go out there at least once a day despite the weather. It was perfect for him. Mindless. And even when it was mindful, he didn't even realize he slipped into his thoughts until he "woke up", blinking hard from staring out of his irritated eyes and looking around in alarm from wandering off the path.

He weaved in and out of the spirals, hoping to feel like he were in a real maze, imagining the huge, dense, thorny hedges encircling him, isolating him from the world. When he hit a dead end, the center of a curl, he backtracked. Kept his eyes to the ground, soothed by the crunch of dirt under his shoes. When he explored every inch of path in one of the four sections he would circle the huge pond to another one, tracing the new, different patterns like a man possessed. Weaving, weaving in and out of the pattern.

Who was to say he wasn't possessed? Would a possessed person even know he was possessed? France pondered that. Because if they knew they were possessed, by the Devil or some evil spirit, then it boiled down to are they powerless to control it or not? They know, they see how it changed them. But things slip out, they feel their body moving but it is not them controlling it.

"' _That was me,_ '" France thought. "' _I watched the tinder of revolution spark. I let it sweep me up. I let it fill me, possess me . . ._ '" He felt odd referring to himself in that weak, vulnerable position. He moved on as quickly as possible.

Ok, so he went on a few riots. So he locally upset the established order. Thinking back, it was the most liberated and alive he ever felt in his whole life despite being possessed. Possess by and obsessed with the lure and idea of fleeting power. He barely remembered any of the details, submitting to the demon. Watching himself, but a driven, ecstatic, rejuvenated version of himself do what he did. If he was being honest, he missed his possessed self. He missed the raw patriotism, the raw fortification of brother standing next to brother in the face of oppressive ideals . . . and temporarily winning. If he was being honest, totally honest, he was trying to recreate the blind, senseless feeling by walking the gardens.

The only problem with that was that Versailles, in all its color and flamboyance and activity, was grey. It was tainted with dullness, inaction, laziness, complacency. It coated France's heart, Versailles wrapped her soft ad fluffy arms around his waist and nuzzled her face tantalizingly into his neck and it held him there, fighting, kicking, screaming. Until he tired himself out. Until he let her hold him and cradle him. And then the grey bled into him. It sucked away all the color from France until he knew he could no longer feel the people he rioted with. Until he lost every ounce of the color he fought for.

So here he was, trying to pathetically recreate that pop, that mindless but vibrant and spirited, fiery and dynamic, vivid and rich, brilliant, striking color when he had already been contaminated, fouled, infected, poisoned by the grey of Versailles.

But, again, he didn't leave.

He looked up to sigh just in tim to see a shockingly white powdered wig hop lightly down the palace stairs. The glare made him squint, so he barely watched the man beneath it before he blurred, and France rubbed his eyes hard against the onset of the burning.

He hated when he overanalyzed himself. It took the optimism and child-like, pure emotion our of everything. Ah, well.

France checked to make sure the man turned the corner around the stone railing and was coming towards him, and there was no mistaking the purpose in those strides, even as he occasionally turned away from France to stare up into the sky and bask in the warm sun and pleasantly enjoy the weather. For a moment he entertained the notion that this man was a bother, an interruption to his peaceful (ok, fine, troubling) string of thought, but he immediately dismissed the thought. It wasn't so much the man was a bother, no, France just didn't want to talk to him. To anybody.

He stepped over the brown border of the pattern he was tracing to receive the man, and they met in the middle, off to one side of the fountain.

He lightly bowed and France returned the favor, scrutinizing every inch of his features. He was young but had an older, mature looking face, with wider-set eyes that tilted downward. They gave him a softer look of perpetual "awwww". He had an exceptionally wide nose but of even proportion, and a tight mouth that combatted his natural resting compassionate face. His green coat was silk with a matching waistcoat and white, lace cravat.

He had a brightness to his eyes, a glint of innovation. Wisdom, grit. He knew what he was talking about and he knew how to talk about it. France instantly held him in good favor.

"Monsieur France?" he asked hesitantly.

France blinked in surprise. "O-Oui, but-"

"Sa Majesté told me. He says I am to speak to you, show you my ideas, collaborate. He says were are to work together to try and restore France's financial situation, seeing as how you . . . " He gestured awkwardly to all of France and he nodded in understanding.

" . . . how I'm la Personification Nationale du Royaume de France."

"Oui. How . . . does that work, exactly?"

Oh, geez, he was skeptical. God, this would be awkward.

 

**_December, 1786_ **   
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Chambers_ **   
_**Louis' Private Cabinet** _

France burst excitedly into Louis' room.

"The Assembly of Notables!" he yelled, looking around frantically for his King. Spotting him behind his desk with Calonne over his shoulder, he squeaked in excitement. He ran over and slapped his palms on the desk and pretended to cup the idea in his hands. He presented it to the two of them, holding it out. "The Assembly." He paused, holding up his pointer finger for dramatic effect. "Of. Notables!" he yelled again.

"France!" Louis scolded, picking up artifacts France's desk slap knocked over.

"The Assembly of Notables!" he cried, rolling over Louis' reaction.

"Excellent!" Louis cried. "What is it?"

"Oui!" Calonne said, "That's an excellent idea! France's bankruptcy is imminent, Sire. There's no denying that! Both Monsieur Bonnefoy and myself have told you that."

"What's the Assembly of Notables?" Louis asked.

"Your personal Parliaments are preventing national legislation. What if we work locally! Start in Paris, where it's the worst. Bypass the Parliaments THERE! We get magistrates, local officials, people from each estate to come-"

"Give testimonies on the financial state of their estates," Calonne offered.

"Hash out ideas!" By then they were talking to each other, more so than Louis.

"Collaborate on solutions-"

"And have Majesté sign off on it!" they finished together. They turned excitedly to Louis, staring expectantly at him, almost breathing heavily from their solution.

Louis' glance flicked uncertainly from France to Calonne, and his hands unconsciously crossed to play with the lace trailing from his sleeve.

France knew what that meant.

"What are you uncertain about? Let us help you," he said sweetly, pleadingly.

"I suppose . . . "

"Tax reform is necessary," Calonne said.

"I understand, I just don't know if . . . what if this fails?"

"So what?" France said brightly, forcefully. "At least we tried, number one. Number two, Paris would be no worse off than it is now!"

"Here's my idea, and France agrees with me: the taxes are the key. Balance. A lesser tax exemption on the clergy and nobility, and proportional land taxes imposed would not completely solve the gap, but substantially level the field. Once that happens, the economy will naturally start to heal itself. Inflation will drop, pending a good harvest. Then, after that we can focus on the debt. With more balanced taxes we can apportion the crown's income appropriately. We're in debt 1.3 billion livres. But we should wait for that crown tax until the economy is fixed. Alright?"

"I said I understand! . . . Alright."

"Alright?" France asked. He instantly regret it. Asking someone file like Louis for absolute confirmation gave them another opportunity to change their mind. He silently cursed his tongue but hid it behind a happy and excited smile.

"Alright," he said with a huge sigh, like it was the hardest decision he ever had to make.

" _Très bien! Génial!_ I'll draw up the document! I've got a solid idea about who should be on this council. Once the document's published I'll send out letters personally asking people to attend!" Calonne said with a triumphant glance to France.

"When you're finished send it down to me. I'll get it signed and deal with publishing!"


	7. Chapter 7

**_February 22, 1787  
Le Château de Versailles_ **

France messed up. He messed up big time.

"You and Louis handle the deputies and attendants since you already seem to have that figured out," he remembered telling Calonne. On that day. On that perfect, triumphant day.

Big. mistake.

His angry, stomping footfalls echoed blaringly through the halls and rooms. He tore around corners and furniture so forcefully he rocketed into guests, nearly knocking people over. His National aura mixed dangerously with his anger, creating a nearly tangible, red ocean of violent, volatile, vehement vexation, constantly rolling off of him in waves and hitting the palace's visitors and staff. When they saw him coming they startled and moved out of his way desperately, gasping at his frequent verbal interjections of absolute fury: mixes ranging from exasperated Zut!'s to full-blown Merde!'s. In his balked hike he looked randomly through the entire palace, growing more and more angry at the constant dead ends and circles he spun and the fact that he was lost and had NO IDEA WHERE HE WAS IN THE FREAKING PALACE while he tried to pinpoint this one single man amidst the groups and the laughing and the wine and CRAP!

People had been pouring in since the early morning - attendees of the Assembly. Versailles had already been entertaining for hours, now. No way was he going to find some stupid man in the middle of this raucous. He bothered to check one of the timepieces when he stormed past and saw that it was close to 14:30. About 6 minutes til. This damned thing was supposed to start at 15:00. _Diable_. MERDE MERDE MERDE! In a burst of furor he grabbed the small brass clock off the fire place and slammed it to the ground, shattering it. Leaving it there to perish dejectedly, he stepped over the pieces and left that room for the next. Another dead end. He took a moment of rationality for a deep breath.

"Ok, France, focus," he breathed, rubbing his entire face hard. "Find him. . . Find him." He mentally scoured the entire palace, ghosting his consciousness through every room on the floor, searching for the room he felt Calonne would be. Probably with the highest concentration of people, seeing as how he organized everything. That bastard. As far as he could tell, he received the best feeling from somewhere in the collection of antechambers in King Louis' apartments. Fine. At least his search was narrowed.

He barreled back through the rooms, just as angry but with better control, gently nudging people out of the way versus roughly shoving them to the side if they didn't move. He found the largest room on the floor and scanned faces intently, searching for that attitude, that essence, that younger, yet wise-looking chubby face of Charles Alexandre de Calonne. He found him in the comfort of mustard-yellow garments, chatting with some courtiers. Well. He'd have to talk to them later. France's fists clenched around the paper in his hands, crushing the source of his horrible wrath, and his anger reawakened like a sleeping dragon startled awake in his heart. His blue eyes flared, his red energy pulsed again, his teeth ground and his voice rolled out of his throat in a low growl. He pushed through the crowd towards Calonne, and when the man met eyes with him, obviously in good cheer, he failed to grasp the weight of France's anger. He smiled amiably in France's face.

For a moment.

"Ah! Monsieur Fra-"

France grabbed the bow on his cravat and twisted, jerking Calonne forward. The people around them gasped and backed away in fear as France spun on his heels and started walking to the next room, hauling him along like a captured prisoner. He choked and struggled, tottering after him awkwardly and off-balanced, but France did not stop. Not until they were in the less-crowded room over. As soon as they cleared the threshold France hurled his arm around and tossed Calonne into the wall before grabbing his cravat again to pull his face inches from his own. He waved the paper in question in Calonne's face: the guest list of people who were to be attending the Assembly.

"What the HELL is this?!" he screamed, the paper cackling in spite of him while he shook it. "Huh? What. the HELL. is THIS? THIS is your representation? They're ALL noblemen!"

"N-no, France," he said, leaning as far away from the Nation as the wall would allow. "We are expecting some from the Third Estate-"

"It's less than a 10th of the list! And Louis actually signed off on this?"

"Well, w-we thought that since this was a consultative body, then we could present them with ideas Louis already approved of and it wouldn't matter if-"

" _Diable_ ," France hissed, backing off of Calonne. "I TOLD you fair representation! When you told me you knew who to choose for this I assumed it was from each Estate!" He messed up. Badly. Very badly. This was a disaster! Oh God, oh God, oh God! What did they hope to do for the Third Estate with all the nobility here? "And this is how you show me? I've been asking to see this list for a week now, and you slide under my door the DAY OF?! I can't believe this! I should've made you get my approval. I should've known something was going to go wrong with this!"

"What's gone wrong?" he asked, gingerly rubbing his throat where France pulled at his cravat. "We have a plan, _mon ami_. You know my ideas. You know what I'm going to bring up. Well it was actually Louis' idea that we present it in the form of an ultimatum: either let us present tax reform or they pay the same taxes the Third Estate pays now. Then we intend to hear from the Third Estate directly, to discuss how the reforms would benefit them. I'm told this Robespierre we invited is extremely smart, with many helpful ideas."

Oh. Oh.

"That was Louis' idea?" France asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically at Calonne.

"Mais oui."

France could feel his cheeks heating in embarrassment from his slight overreaction. He took heir lack of consideration of the Third Estate as forced exclusion rather than an attempt to simply target the people they wanted to change the most. He searched Calonne's face for any sign of worry, any trace of fear or any inclination that their plan wouldn't work, but to France he looked fully and completely confident in their ideas, like they were foolproof.

"Don't panic yet," he continued. "Once they agree to our terms w can work to restore you to your former glory."

Ok. Good. He could roll with this. He could stay calm.

France watched him rub his neck more and he looked around at all the shocked and scared glares. He laughed awkwardly in embarrassment and gently brushed off Calonne's shoulders in a gesture of peace. " _D-désolé, mon ami_ ," he said, offering an awkward and forced smile.

" _Pas de problème_ ," he said, though it was rather strained.

Eh, whatever. Now he had bigger problems. He still had to tackle this Assembly. Briefly he tried to conjure up a mental image of success - Calonne standing above the others in the center of the room with Louis seated behind him. He tried to imagine everyone's faces as they faced the implications of Calonne's ultimatum - full monetary work-up, or a slight increase for the sake of France as a whole. Them taking it calmly.

What he imagined, however, was a series of shouts, angry protest, people standing up, arms waving in disgust, Calonne backing away, failure.

Momentarily lost in the fervor and panic, he unconsciously reached for his ponytail, curling the end around his finger in a nervous tic. He missed Calonne's gaze quietly observe the action. France shook away the vision, but continued to twirl the hair around his finger, unaware that he was doing it. " _Quelle heure est-il?_ "

"14:50, roughly. Are you ready?"

" _Oui, bien sûr_!" he said. But his chest wasn't. Since he let go of Calonne it tightened, harder and harder around his heart. It started straining, faster, rougher, pulsing nearly out of his ribcage.

"You are nervous," he told France. Not a question. A statement.

France's stomach flipped sickeningly and he nodded away the nausea. "The last time this Assembly met it was . . . let me think . . . 1626 . . . underrrr . . . Louis XIII."

"Were things much different?" he questioned, joking. France chuckled, but wanted to answer.

"Oui, et non," he said. "Struggles waged, as they do now, but they're different struggles. Back then I was fighting Hapsburg Spain and the Huguenots. These struggles are internalized. And our finances were certainly in better condition. We didn't necessarily need the Assembly back then. We need it now."

Calonne smiled sympathetically. But in his eyes was awe at France's recollection of history so far beyond what any of them could remember. The fact that he lived through all of that, and would continue to live to see what was beyond today. If France didn't completely collapse. France wished he wouldn't. Wouldn't look at him like that.

He clapped France on the shoulder. " _Ça ira_! I promise. Wasn't it you who said that if this failed we would be no worse off than we are now? Come on. Fix yourself up, hold your chin high, and we will go in together. Ok? I have full confidence that this will go according to plan."

France re-tucked his shirt and rubbed his face, and when he was ready he nodded.

France walked into the Hercules Drawing Room, walked head-long into the faces, the voices, the stares, the questions. His ears picked up on every sound of disapproval across the entire room, even on the balconies. And though he knew he was't being attacked directly, as soon as a pair of eyes met his he hastily lowered his gaze. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was going to be ripped apart like they were dogs and he, Calonne, and Louis were wounded rabbits. He cursed his shaky legs, he chided at his cold, shaking hands, he reprimanded his stomach and lungs, quaking as they interrupted the fluidity and depths of his breath. He sighed in complete relief when he saw his chair to Louis' right, but in a split-second decision he sat in the front row of benches, facing Louis.

The King threw him a questioning glance and made to gesture to the seat but France quickly shook his head and gave Louis a hard glare. He brushed a finger across his lips in a gesture of silence and covered it up by resting his elbow on the arm rest and cupping this chin, opening his pointer finger to stretch across his mouth. Louis sent him another look of absolute terror, of absolute abandonment, and France's heart hurt with regret. Why did he decide to sit here?

Maybe he was detaching from Louis, he absently offered to himself. It was just a suggestion, but the implications of that single sentence made so much sense to him, explained so much that even though he tried to let it go it left a crack in his mind. It left a slight hole, and the reason beyond, the awareness and question-answering closure and analysis beckoned to him with its sense of self, so enticing and beguiling that he suddenly found himself peering in without realizing he moved towards it at all.

When Louis had to choose between his literal country, which included his Nation, or the opulence of Versailles, the fortune, the luxuries, the affluence, he didn't choose France, if he remembered correctly. In fact, rather than just not choose France, he removed the losing party as far away from himself as he could. Knowing he made the selfish choice, and unwilling to face it. Too cowardly. Oh, how the tables have turned. Well, not officially. Yet. He was not ready to admit to himself yet that a time was coming where he would have to make his own choice. No, he was just enjoying the potential irony. Yeah. That's it.

So. Who would he rather side with? If he had to choose between that man or the people, if he had to decide between Louis, the monarchy, the symbolic and emblematic representation of France's splendor, France's history, France's grandeur, pomp, luster, the French crown, the longest standing monarchy in history. . .

Or . . .

The French people, the epitome of him, his essence, his desires and wants, his grit, his heart . . .

If he had to choose between the ONE person who controlled and stepped on his Nation, or the people who would stand beside his human, he would choose the people.

Every time.

He was done sacrificing himself or the people that didn't care. He decided right then and there. Why should he? Louis didn't give him that courtesy, so he didn't deserve it in return.

And no, he wasn't going to discuss the hypocrisy of his continued presence at Versailles. He had a right to be mad every once in a while.

On a side note, would Louis even see a potential to start interpreting the signs? Would he see the cues, the subtleties? If France had to guess, he'd say no.

Oh, well.

He reemerged from his thoughts to realize that he and Louis were still holding resolute eye contact in their own way. Louis' eyes were just as glossy as France's so he wondered what the man was thinking about. He doubted it had anything in common with France's inner monologue. Why should it? He lived the life of the privileged. The class system would never seem like a problem to the powerful the same way a mouse shortage wouldn't seem like a problem to a dog.

France crossed his legs and raised an eyebrow to confidently say, "Yes?" to him.

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly back at him, but France's heightened sight picked up on the subtle change. France was about to match and raise him when one of the deputies stood up. Despite the level of clamor in the room, the whole crowd energized in an instant. 144 pairs of eyes snapped to the disturbance and they all grew silent, trailing lamely off mid-sentence in the midst of this new and exciting happening.

"His Royal Majesty, King Louis XVI of the House of Bourbon, calls this Assembly of Notables to order on this day, the 22nd of February, in the year of our Lord 1787. First to take the floor will be His Majesty King Louis XVI's chief finance minister, Charles Alexandre de Calonne."

Calonne lifted his chin and stood from his seat of honor to Louis' left. He took a moment to sweep his gaze across the assembly and clear his throat before launching into his piece:

"Abuses. Abuses in tax payment are defended by self-interest, influence, wealth, and ancient prejudices which seem to be hallowed by time; but what are all these together compared with the common good and the necessity of the state?"

Wow. That was a bold start. France made sure to try and relax his shoulders as they tensed up and crept towards his ears over and over.

"These abuses oppress the wealth-producing, laboring class: the abuses of pecuniary privilege; unjust exceptions to the general rule; and exemptions which only relieve one section of taxpayers by aggravating the conditions of the others . . . "

His words were drowned out by the restlessness of the crowd, punctuated by "Hear!"s and other assents from the minuscule number of Third Estate representatives. Oh, boy. Already they weren't taking kindly to Calonne's summary. Unexpected, hot, angry tears of despondency rose so quickly to his eyes he struggled to blink them back as his heart sank. This was exactly what he was afraid of. Louis waved to one of the deputies and they stood, calling attention to he Assembly.

"Order! Order, here!"

As soon as they were silent, Calonne continued. "The projects which the King intends to impart to you are neither doctrine nor novelties. They represent a summary of the plans for the public good, long contemplated by experienced statesmen and by the government itself. Some have been attempted in part and all seem to have the backing of the nation . . . " Here he added a pointed glance to France. His strong face momentarily collapsed in worry at the sight of France's terror-filled eyes, so he quickly plastered a (hopefully) convincing smile and nodded his approval. " . . . but up until now their complete implementation appeared impracticable because of the difficulty of reconciling a host of local customs, claims, privileges, and collecting interest."

"' _That is fancy talk for Parliament_ ,'" France thought, re-alloting Calonne's direct gaze towards the Assembly members.

"To this end, His Majesty has first of all considered the various forms of administration which occur in those provinces without local Estates. In order that the distribution of taxation may cease to be unequal and arbitrary, he has decided to confide the task to the landowners. He has derived from the principles of the monarchy the general plan of a graduated series of deliberative assemblies, whereby the expression of the taxpayers' wishes and observations on everything which concerns them will be transmitted from public to district assemblies, thence to provincial assemblies, and through them to the throne.

Obviously he was trying to use weighted and confusing words for the sake of confusion so people couldn't ask questions. But if France understood right . . . His mouth dropped open before he could keep it shut. So his plan wasn't to bypass the parliaments as he hoped. He was just going to make the peoples' assemblies (of which there were countless numbers per area) report to the major parliaments again? He just expected them to report directly to him? After being screened through two, both Paris and Versailles?! What was different?! France KNEW he would find some way to back out of full-fledged change, and that was it. That was the move he made to try and keep a desperate hold of his failing support. Why was France unaware of any of this? He hissed out his discontent through his teeth, and when Louis' gaze rolled to his France shook his head, disappointed. He swore the man sunk lower his seat.

"Next, His Majesty brought all personal attention to bear on establishing the same principle of uniformity in the distribution of the land tax . . . "

A cacophony of voices erupted in the hall, echoing deafeningly against the short-lasting re-established silence that came before. All over people started shouting their disapprovals and censure.

"So you're saying you want to impose a tax on the land we own? That's preposterous!"

"When you have the floor, you may-" the deputy tried to input.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Calonne countered.

"How is that 'uniform'?" he asked. "I know for a fact that I own more land than Monsieur de la Fournier. Are you saying that you're going to tax me more than him?"

"It will be even," attempted Louis, but Calonne persevered against the crowd while Louis faded out.

"I have already mentioned that. King Louis recognized that the one-twentieth, instead of being assessed on all the land in his kingdom in true proportion to the value of the crop as they should be, suffer an infinity of exceptions which are tolerated rather than regarded as legitimate. The revenue of this general tax . . . " He trailed off and glared tiredly at the Assembly, waiting for the residual whispers and voices to die down. "The revenue of this general tax, instead of providing the government with vital information about the produce of the kingdom and the relative wealth of each province, serve only to demonstrate the offending inequality between their various contributions.

"His Majesty has decided to remedy these defects by applying the rules of a strictly distributive justice, by restoring the original intention behind the tax, and by raising it to its true value without increasing anyone's contribution, indeed granting some relief to the people. Also, and finally, by making every kind of privilege incompatible. The one-twentieth will be replaced by a general land tax covering the whole area of the kingdom on a proportion of all produce, payable in kind where feasible otherwise in money, and admitting of no exception - even the crown lands, other than those resulting from the varying fertility of the soil and the varying harvests."

"' _So Louis promised to pay this tax as well? Incroyable_ ,'" France thought, stroking his ponytail. One minute Louis was unwilling to give up nobles' support, and the next he's ready to help France by paying himself.

"The lands of the Roman Catholic Church would necessarily be included in this general assessment which, to be fair, must include all land as does the protection for which it is the price-"

"What is with this change, Monsieur? Not a month ago you had the crown borrow close to 300,000 livres! Now you presume too much to make up for it! Are you saying you're going to tax the clergy now? You're mad! Laying taxes on houses and servants of God!"

"And who is the sole sovereign of the Church?" Louis yelled, quieting the room instantly. France was glad he was finally getting heated. It may help him put his foot down and keep it there. "I am. I am granted sovereignty. And all those who are Catholic here should all be servants of God!" Louis called up memories of France's desperate sprint to Notre Dame, and he quickly tried to block them out.

"What is your goal for all of these new implementations? To eat away at OUR pockets, Votre Majesté?!" Hands were thrown in the air, dismissing them, waving off both him and Calonne.

He held up a finger and waited for silence, or as close to silence as he was going to get. "But in order that these lands should not be overburdened by continuing to pay the taxes collected to fund the debt of the clergy, the King, sovereign protector," he emphasized, gesturing wildly to Louis behind him, "has decided to provide for the repayment of this debt by granting the clergy the necessary authorization to make repayment by selling off feudal rights, and other church grants.

"What's more: he wishes to implement complete freedom of the grain trade, with the one exception of deferring to the wishes of the provinces where any of them think it necessary temporarily to suspend export abroad-"

"So you'll give exemptions to merchants and NOT to us-"

"If you would LISTEN," Louis said, rubbing his face exasperatedly. "The exemptions," he called, "refer to the state as a whole, and NOT to individuals, and ONLY! ONLY IF they promise to cease exportation abroad! Continue," he gestured to Calonne.

"The King also proposes the abolition of forced labor on public highways, and the conservation of this excess: harsh exaction to a monetary contribution distributed more justly and spent in such a way that it can never be diverted to other purposes. Internal free trade, customs houses removed to the frontiers, the establishment of a uniform tariff taking the needs of commerce into consideration, the suppression of several taxes which are harmful to industry or lead too easily to harassment, and the alleviation of the burden of the obligation to purchase salt from the state - which I have never mentioned to His Majesty without his being deeply grieved that he cannot rid his subjects of it altogether. These, gentlemen," he said passionately, spinning to drink the whole room in with his eyes, "are so many salutary measures which enter into the plan upon which His Majesty will enlarge, and which all can conform to the principles of, under which, are its basis."

He stepped away from the center and retreated, almost hastily, to his seat next to Louis.

Before anyone could raise a hand to protest Louis stood. "We have collaborated deeply on these ideas. I bestow them upon you with my fullest confidence in them. I also endow you with this: if we cannot agree to this or at least some variation of this, then, to be swift and frank, and in the name of political action, I will force ALL of the burdens of the Third Estate's taxes upon you, so that you may all do SOME part to ease France's struggle."

"It is your choice, gentlemen," Calonne said. "I will now relinquish the floor."

France's breath caught in his lungs and he held it, shutting is eyes. Too afraid to look at peoples' faces to see if their wheels were turning, if their mental cogs were pounding as they worked through it in their heads. Dreading the moment someone jumped up, ran to take the floor to launch into some violent and passionate opposition. He half-flinched away, expecting the room to erupt.

Someone stood up.

"I have one question," came the voice from the back of the room. France jumped in spite of himself.

"Here it comes," he whispered to himself. He wasn't ready. No, no, no. He contemplated running out of the room. He was too late.

"Have these been run through the parliaments?"

 

 ** _March 15, 1787_**  
**_Le Château de Versailles, State Apartments_**  
**_Hercules Drawing Room_**

"His Royal Majesty, King Louis XVI of the House of Bourbon, calls this Assembly of Notables to order on this day, the 15th of March, in the year of our Lord 1787. First to take the floor will be a Monsieur Jean-Baptiste de Grasse, on the subject of legislative bodies in France."

 

**_March 30, 1787_**  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_**  
**_France's Bedchamber_**

France stopped going.

He couldn't stand it. Not after the last two Assemblies. Couldn't stand watching them ridicule the only man who restored his confidence, the only man who wasn't helping him to help his own agenda, the only man who genuinely cared about France. Who mended his heart, who made the pain go away - not completely, but the man who at least blanketed it, swaddling him with belief and ambition, faith and aspiration. He couldn't watch them laugh him off the floor. He couldn't handle them sneering and jeering and smirking and shouting "Monsieur Défécit! Monsieur Défécit!". Like children on the playground. He couldn't stand to see the usually so confident Calonne - his backbone - 's cheeks blush and redden like Spain's tomatoes in mortification while they didn't listen and chatted and joked through his points and discussion and debated amongst themselves over him.

They were just bitter. He tried to tell himself that. That they were bitter, and the plan was going to work, they were just ensuring that Calonne and Louis knew that if this was going to pass, it wasn't going to pass without a fight. They were just dragging it out.

But they didn't understand how badly this had to work. They didn't understand that France's world was going to stop if it didn't. That he was effectively going to have to watch his own decent into the deepest abyss of rock bottom. That he was doomed to lose himself so completely . . . he had no idea how this would change him. He knew it would, he just wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to go crazy, wasn't ready to face absolute, raw, naked, melancholic depression. It was his life in the balance. This had to work. Had had had to work. "Please, dear Lord, let this work . . . "

Calonne tried to tell him over and over and over that it would, to not worry, to relax. But every time he thought about it, he got a specific burning pain across his shoulder blades, searing every time he moved his arms or tried to roll his shoulders or even contemplate the Assembly. His gut, his impulse was telling him something was going to go wrong. And when those kind of National alarm bells rang . . . think of Paris. . .

France had to prepare for it. And he was prepared to prepare for that. To hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

No matter what the worst meant for the future. Have you ever had so much to do that you weren't sure where to start and did none of it?

France has.

 

**_April 3, 1787_**  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_  
**_France's Drawing Room_** **

France's world froze.

He thought he prepared. Hah. Prepared. Preparation blanched in the face of the monster that was the unannounced and abrupt. All he did was sit around Versailles, strategically avoiding and procrastinating, unwilling to face the fact that a storm was coming.

This was it. This was the first crack of thunder.

His world froze. Not for the first time, and he'd be damned if it was the last. "What?" he asked. Not because he didn't hear, no. He heard it fine. He was just hoping, PRAYING with all of him that he misinterpreted. That there was a different angle, a different speech pattern, pitch, emphasis, that would change the meaning.

"They've refused both options," Calonne said miserably, looking down at his shoes.

A moment to hear again, reinterpret, try his original meaning again, then attempt every combination and permutation of the meaning. None of them worked. Except the one he didn't want to make sense. "How?!" he breathed as he fought the onset of the inevitable pain in his back. "HOW?" he shouted, trying to force himself into anger rather than absolute anguish. He pounded his fist on the desk. He squeezed the glass of water in his hand so hard he crushed it. Glass, water, and his blood spattered and Calonne jumped back in shock. "We PLANNED it out! It was FOOL PROOF! This . . . " he whined, voice cracking, "This was supposed to work! HOW? HOW can they refuse?" he roared. "You gave them the ultimatum! Louis' ultimatum! Louis . . . It's over. It's all over. . . I'm finished. Louis is finished. All hope of legislation, of France's salvation, of my salvation, is lost. Oh, God . . . " He fell to the floor, just about swallowing his heart thrice over. And his bile. "You know . . . you know what this means, right? It means we're finished. ABSOLUTELY FINISHED!"

"Désol-"

"What do they WANT?! Haven't they been given ENOUGH? Simply because they put themselves to the trouble of being born they have been showered with fortune their entire lives! What more do they WANT?"

"They presented an ultimatum to _me_ ," he said, rubbing his face tiredly. For once looking disillusioned. Defeated. Pathetic. Exhausted. "They vowed to throw all of them out - ALL of them! - Over and over and over again until either the parliaments approve them, local or national, or if Louis and I call the États-Général. And we let them do it." He chuckled dejectedly. "My reputation is ruined as well. They're SLANDERING my name in the papers, the streets . . . Monsieur Défécit. Ha! HA! Monsieur Défécit, meant to take up my place next to my Madame Défécit, Marie Antoinette. Ruined. I am ruined." His voice cracked; he was fighting back tears.

France didn't really care about Calonne's reputation. A country was going to fall apart. "I said do you know what this means? Louis'll NEVER accomplish anything without the Parliaments because he'll NEVER call the États-Général. He'll NEVER accomplish anything with them because they'll NEVER support him again. Or you! You've done it. We've done it. We took my last chance of . . . Ruined . . . Ruined it." He couldn't find it in him to cry. Not yet. He wanted to, but his heart hurt too badly. Simply crying wouldn't do his pain justice. It ached into his spine, his shoulders, a deep-set, feverish ache. It deadened his limbs and his head and brain until all he could do was sit and stare and pray that it wasn't real, it wasn't happening. That his pain would heal on its own, all go away, the instant he woke up. "The Estates-Gen . . . " France said weakly.

"It's a political body made up of-"

"I KNOW WHAT IT IS!"

"France, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I sincerely believed . . . If I had any idea . . . "

"You'll never understand. You'll never understand what it feels like when you're forced to let people PLAY around with your pain. You'll never know what it means to literally be ripped apart from the inside out by your own mind, AND your body. You'll never . . . But . . .but you promised me . . ." He had no idea what to say anymore. His final hope, his last chance of reconciliation from crown to country had failed. He played his hand, he went all in, and they called his bluff, showing a Royal Flush, a hand that hoodwinked the King and Ace in his Straight. He had no money left for the blind, no poker face left to use, no more emotional strength to bluff with. Time for him to leave the table.

" _Je sais. Je suis très désolé._ "

He didn't want to hear that man's voice anymore. All he wanted was to be alone with his sadness. He pathetically inched his way to his desk and peeled himself off the floor, angrily throwing his arm across to scatter his belongings for purchase. Calonne startled, then quickly went to France's aid.

"Don't touch me," he hissed, throwing his arm off as he stood himself up. He pointed to the door. "Get out."

"If it's any consolation," his voice set France's teeth on edge, piercing his ears and shooting straight into his head, blocking gand interrupting his sad thoughts.

"It's not!" France said. "Just get out. _Casse-toi!_ "

He chose to ignore France's choice words. " . . . I-I'll be fired within the month. They're goading Louis against me, and-"

France just wanted him to stop. TALKING. He angrily kicked a candlestick across the floor at him. "I said get out! Haven't you done enough? HAD? HAD enough?" Ah, there were the tears. They burned his eyes, hot and furious, and he turned away and weakly waved his hand. He could tell he was about to analyze, remind himself whose fault it was, but he needed someone to blame. Now, right now, before he emotionally collapsed. "You IDIOT! WHY didn't the two of you think this through?! Why didn't you talk to ME? WHY did you let them do that? To me? To France? Why is EVERYONE so incompetent here? Why, why, why can't anyone make a BREAKTHROUGH on ANY front? Why can't I just get RELIEF? Get out. Get out of my sight RIGHT NOW! I'll make sure you NEVER set foot in Versailles AGAIN!"

"France, I'm sorry."

" _Allez-vous en_ ," he whispered. "Or I'll kill you."

France didn't turn around but he heard the footsteps grow softer until the door softly _snicked_ shut. He collapsed again, finally alone with his grief. He lowered himself to the floor again and hugged his knees, trying to curl up inside of himself and disappear. He cried, ugly, heaving sobs, until his head throbbed and until his nose burned and until he had no tears left to cry. He unrolled, shaking and weak, under his desk like a child, wishing it all away.

 

France had a visitor. He guessed. The courier. When he woke up there were letters on his desk. He couldn't remember how they got there, though. He didn't really care. The first thing he noticed before the letters was that his back still ached. The rest of him was cold; since he drifted off right there on the floor the cold had seeped into his skin and muscles, leaving him totally chilled. The skin on his back was hot, ridiculously hot, sweaty. Where his shirt touched it burned like an open wound, like air on a tender, open scrape. He hesitantly went to stretch his arms above his head, grinding his teeth as the individual fibers of his shirt brushed his skin, when a pop in the top of his right shoulder shot uncomfortably warm needles down a line across his whole back, ending at his opposite hip. "Ow!" he yelled, more surprised than injured. He carefully peeled himself off the floor, out from under his desk, cradling his arm to his chest and reaching behind him down the neck of his shirt, holding it away from him in case it aggravated those pins and needles. "What the hell?"

As soon as he was able to stand he pulled his shirt off over his head and tried to peer at his back, but all he could see was the beginnings of a nasty purple bruise starting at the top of his shoulder. Reaching around he tried to touch the bruise, to trace it along its path as far as he could, but gently ghosting his fingers over it made it pulse and hurt like a huge bee sting. He tried the other end, the start at his hip, but all he could feel was to the start of the swelling. It felt like it just wanted to tear itself open. He grabbed the envelopes off the table and gingerly crossed the room to one of the walls with a sectioned, decorative mirror on it. When he tried to see his back, though, he couldn't get the right angle, or a clean enough picture before the breaks in the mirror corrupted the image. From what he could tell, he had a long, angry scratch that crossed his back. Bruising, like someone took their nail across his back.

Probably from the rift that this Assembly caused. Oh well. Nothing to do but nurse it and wait until it healed. He didn't feel like dealing with his shirt and this scrape so he left it there on the floor and left for his room, hoping to quickly get to his bed and get under his toasty covers to try and warm the rest of him up. And damn propriety. If he wanted to walk around shirtless so what? He'd do everyone a favor.

Well, ok, his face wouldn't. His eyes were still red and puffy, as was his nose. His lashes were clumping together, too, making him look even worse. There was no hiding the face that he'd been crying. Oh, well. He'd spend the whole day alone in his room anyway so no one had to see his face.

On the way over he checked the envelopes for the sender. The top was from Arthur Kirkland. Britain. The second letter he received from him since Paris.

  
_'Frog,_

_I'm going to just pretend that Canada's letter simply didn't reach you rather than believe that you're ignoring him. I'm going to just pretend that my letter and everyone's letters have missed you rather than believe what I honestly think is happening over there._

_Have you thrown up yet? Has your body started to ache yet? Have you noticed the changes yet? The subtle changes in thought and mannerism, the slow and steady onset of perpetual irritability and headaches and dark circles that won't go away? Constantly tired, wrought with fever? Violent thoughts you never had before that you can't shoo away? As much as we fight, as much as we hate each other, I'd never wish that upon you._

_Because honestly anything, anything in this entire world is better for a Nation than a civil war._

_I can't think of the proper words, the words strong enough to describe exactly what I remember, but I remember. I do. I remember the War of the Roses. I remember what it did to me. What it does to us. I remember every single ache and pain I had. I remember how emotionally crippled I was. Forced to physically and mentally take sides and then unexpectedly switch on the dime, neither one ever in sync. Forced to deal with the symptoms of being literally ripped in half. Sometimes supporting one side in thought but physically dying to approach the other. Losing your balance between your Nation and your human._

_I understand. I can't tell you what to do to fix your situation. I don't know Louis XVI, and I don't know Marie Antoinette. I don't know what state of disarray France is in since you haven't been in touch with any of us. I don't even know if you would even try to listen to me or just brush me off out of spite. But here's what I suggest: a National conference will convene in a week. At Spain's. Please, please find it within yourself to attend, no matter how tired you are. Bring all of your stories, all of your information, all of your pains. Let all of us talk it out, let all of us help you. I promise we will. I will even sail across the Channel and come and get you myself on my way to Spain's if you think you'll need help getting there, you lazy bastard._

_Because I do not, do not want to see you reduced to a miserable mess of a Nation. I don't want to sit idly by and watch while your body decays when the entirety of Europe could help. I don't want to see you crumble, or worse, disappear like Rome. You're too strong for that, France. Do you hear me, Francis Bonnefoy? I refuse to watch you disappear._

_I'd miss our fighting._

_Arthur Kirkland; The Kingdom of Great Britain'_

 

  
_'Big Brother,_

_Holy Rome is writing this letter for me since I can't. Why are you ignoring us, Fratello? Why are you so sad, so quiet? You used to stop over all the time but you don't anymore! Don't you like us anymore? And why is it making Mister Austria so upset with you? I can tell he is; he won't stop grumbling about you and every time I ask why he won't tell me and just gives me more chores to do and that makes me really sad because Miss Hungary doesn't know why either so she can't tell me and I'm really scared that something's wrong but I don't know and I'm scared!_

**_-Italy told me to write everything exactly as she says it, so sorry if this gets confusing ~ H.R.E_**

_Do you need some cheering up? Know what I try to do if I'm really sad? Make food for Holy Rome, if Mister Austria lets me! Usually he doesn't because he thinks I make a mess but the other day Holy Rome brought home some pasta noodles just for me! Spain and Romano sent me some tomatoes that they grew themselves, and I found some garlic and basil and parsley in Mister Austria's kitchen (which is weird because they're so expensive!) so I mashed up the tomatoes and made a really thick pasta sauce to go with the noodles and shredded cheese over it..._

_Mmmm, my mouth is watering just thinking about it! So you should make some good French food! It might make you feel better! OR you can come over here and I'll cook for you! Si, then we can have some fun together and you can forget that you're sad! I like that idea the best!_

**_-Austria sent Italia away for some more chores, so I promised her I'd finish for her._ **

**_I'm not sure what's going on with you. Are you sick? Injured? Upset with us? Is this some kind of jest, some kind of foolishness? I don't particularly care, whatever it is. What I do care about is Italia._ **

**_She cares so much about you, and you're really upsetting her with whatever this is. There's a lot of confusion, a lot of crying. And it's upsetting me. So if this is meant to be funny, knock it off right now. If this is a genuine problem, you better confess it and at least placate us before you make Italy more sad. Before I take action and do something you're going to regret. Because I refuse to allow you to do this to her. As I write this, Austria and I are planning on meeting with Spain and Prussia to discuss how to get to the bottom of this little situation. Just so you know._ **

_**I expect a response soon, or prepare yourself for whatever actions we deem necessary.**_

_**Italia**_ _**and**_ _**Holy Roman Empire**_

__

 

  
_'France, mi amigo,_

_I'm sending Austria over. If you don't come to the National conference we're having in a week at my house, I'm sending him. I've already discussed it with Prussia, Britain, Austria, Holy Rome, and Hungary. I know we're neighbors and it would be really easy for me to just hop over, but I don't want to leave right after a conference. Usually there's a lot to run by Carlos III and Maria Luisa._

_I've come to terms with the fact that whatever you're dealing with, you just don't want to talk about it. At least, not over a letter. But one thing still bothers me. You know what's odd about all this, Francia? Here's what's odd: I wonder why Louis XVI hasn't written to Carlos III, or why Marie Antoinette never wrote to Maria Therese or Austria. They've been just as secretive as you. I hope it's not because they're . . . ignoring anything, if you get what I mean. That's why I'm still bothered, and that's why I'm sending Austria._

_Whether you want help or not._

_You can ignore me, ignore this letter all you want. Whether you answer or not Austria is still going over. It's up to you to warn your King of his visit._

_And if worst honestly, truly comes to worst, I'll tell my King that this is more than a National problem. And you know what that means. We'll come investigating. Potentially with an army. I'm not afraid to threaten you anymore. I care too much about you. I spent all my niceties on you when I just thought you were a little stressed. I know that whatever this is it's serious. I'm too worried anymore for niceties._

_Antonio Fernandez Carriedo; El Reino de España'_


	8. Chapter 8

**_April 4, 1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_ **  
**_France's Bedchamber_ **

"Monsieur Bonnefoy? King Louis requires your presence in his chambers."

As if France's arms throttling his pillow in pain didn't give away his answer. As if the butler couldn't see his set jaw, or his furrowed eyebrows, or his squinted eyes. Or hear his strained vocal chords laboring to unleash the screams and moans he choked off and suppressed since the night before. As if the huge, black and blue and red and puffy and hypersensitive scratch - that didn't even break his skin but still caused this much pain - on his bare back that he tried to air out, cool off, wasn't a big enough hint. Or the fact that he deliberately ignored the call for breakfast and lunch from the same butler, obviously pretending to be asleep, or the fact that he was in the same position, on his stomach on the bed, as he was those other two times, or his utter lack of propriety, half-naked and not even out of bed for callers or visitors. No, God forbid that someone around Versailles would get a clue!

France turned away from the man and shoved his face back into the pillow, constricting his breathing at the cost of hopefully proving his point.

"Monsieur? He insists upon its urgency."

France meant to roll over and snap a nasty retort about where Louis could stuff his urgency, but the sudden twist of his back aggravated the scrape so terribly he stiffened up and jammed a bit of the blanket in his mouth to muffle his whine.

"Sir?" he started, stepping forward in alarm, but France shut his eyes and shook his head. He waited for the waves of fierce and piercing stabs to stop their shooting throbs down the length of the wound before gently straightening his back and lowering himself back to the plush comfort of the mattress that became (that he made) his prison.

He burrowed his face back into the pillow's divots that by then contoured perfectly to his nose and cheekbones. "Tell him I'm indisposed," he muttered, only it came out sounding like "Terrmemindspesst," swallowed by the pillow.

"Pardon?"

"Terr im. Erm. Indespesst."

"Indisposed, sir?"

"Oui."

"Should I . . . also call upon the physician?"

"Non!" he said, lifting his head. "Call no one . . . _s'il vous plaît_ ," he lamely tacked on the end.

" . . . Are you sure? You seem to be in . . . much pain, Monsieur."

"Do I?" he countered sarcastically. "Tell Louis I'm too ill to see him right now, and that if he wants to see me, he'll have to get off his ass and come to my room for once."

"Would you like me to tell him this verbatim, Monsieur?" he asked tentatively. Afraid of the answer he knew France would say in his bitterness.

"Oui. Verbatim."

"Oui, Monsieur Bonnefoy." He briefly bowed and left France alone.

Despite his harsh no, France knew the butler would tell Louis to bring a doctor. Not exactly disobeying him, but not entirely complying either. And Louis would, too. He knew that human doctors couldn't help France, and he would still bring one. France used to have a personal doctor specifically for him under Louis XIV and XV, but Louis XVI had him fired early in his reign under the impression that France was lying to him, joking with him. About being a Nation. Luckily for France, he had Marie Antoinette's embarrassed and hesitant testimony about the existence of Austria that made him begin to come around. To half-convince him. Which was fine! At the time.

At the time, France brushed it off - forgot about it - how could he expect Louis to suddenly believe something so far-fetched? That he suddenly had a crazy person here claiming to embody his land, his kingdom, his country? Prodding and questioning him. Pushing him. Forcing him to think, for the love of God.

He probably waltzed into this job expecting smooth sailing. He ignored the signs and warnings of the weather and his crew and he strutted on the ship expecting to grab the wheel and tilt his head back, enjoy the sun, spin the wheel a fraction of an inch or so every so often. But then the clouds moved in. The crew shouted, they waved, they warned, but he shut his eyes and his ears and still set sail, trying desperately to fulfill this dream of a lazy pleasure cruise. And then, everything else hit at once: the thunder, the lightning, shaking the ship. The rain battered down on everything, including him. The frothing waves, the roiling sea, the boat rocking out of control, ripping the wheel from his hands. The sky went black. The sea splashed up on all sides, the darkness and the rain blocked all hope of visibility. Tossed back and forth, hitting the rails, ropes lashing everywhere as the sail tore free. Burning salt, stinging. But his eyes were still shut. He still thought he was living perfection, that the crew would handle it.

And suddenly there was this PERSON here, this . . . this obscure concept with eyes that seemed to convey everything and nothing all at once, this person screaming in his face, bumping him off the wheel, telling him that he represented the unhappy sea. That the storm was its voice, speaking through him, and Louis better listen to him if he wanted to calm it down. But before he could explain why the sea was acting up, Louis scoffed. Got upset at France's gall. How dare he take control of me, of my ship, issuing orders when he had no right-

That's how he saw France. Someone who, despite his cruise falling apart around him, was interrupting his happy moment. Getting in the way. A usurper, stealing the position of Captain. And he opened his eyes, he saw the carnage and he saw the panic and the storm and the destruction, he saw his cruise in shambles. And he had the nerve to turn to France and ask him why. Why did France bring the storm? Why did he ruin his cruise?

That was how he saw France.

And that was ok! At first. Skepticism was natural, and obviously expected by all the Nations by now. He didn't blame Louis for initially blowing him off. But once he knew, there was no excuse. Once he knew France wasn't lying, or crazy, or blowing smoke, once he knew what France was and who and what he stood for, once he understood that France wasn't trying to overtake him, but rather help him . . . once he knew, and he still looked down on France . . . It wasn't ok anymore. Still isn't.

His patience had officially run out with Louis Capet.

Where was he going with this? How long had he been on this carriage of thought? He had no idea.

Well, whatever. His mind was made up. He was done with Louis' nonsense.

France realized with a sudden burst of pride that his answer was perfect! Smart, concise, rude, and perfect! Because if this really was important, Louis would have to do exactly what France told him to do - get off his ass and come to him, and, probably, nurse a bruise to his laziness almost as big as France's back. If it wasn't urgent, then he looked pretty silly "insisting upon its urgency" like the butler told him. So he'd have to nurse a bruise to his illusory superiority, and accept the fact that he wasn't always worth France dropping everything for.

Now would be a perfect time for him to recognize those subtleties France mentioned during the Assembly. He remembered thinking Louis was observant. Which made this whole thing worse! Because France should've realized sooner that any blindness on Louis' part was selective. Ah, well. It didn't mean anything anymore. He was an ass. Nothing would change that.

With all concepts of time skewed by his zoning out, France decided that rather than wait on Louis for what could potentially be hours he should just sleep instead. He squeezed and punched his pillow into a nice, even tube shape and turned his face to the right, definitely sure that he would wake up stiff and sore, but not really caring.

No sooner had his eyes shut that three light knocks forced them open again.

"Are you SERIOUS?!" he yelled into his pillow. He twisted his neck the other way to face the door, throwing on his best 'I'm annoyed' look. "Come in," he called. " _Pardonnez-moi_ , but I'm not decent-"

The door flew open and Louis strode in already talking. "Why did you send me-" He stopped, shocked as he gazed around the messy room and at France, lip curling in disgust. "What are you doing?"

"Nice to see you too," France spat.

"This room is filthy!"

"Well, in case you didn't get the butler's message, or you didn't listen, which is more likely, I haven't exactly been well enough to clean it! I know you were so worried."

"You're incorrigible! Is that why?" he asked, wiggling his finger at France's back. "That looks nasty as well."

"How I have so missed you these past few days," he said, voice straining as he hoisted himself up. He rolled his whole body evenly to the side to face Louis. "I was about to get some rest, so could you please make this quick?"

Louis' eyes widened and his head cocked to the side. France struck a nerve, and Louis didn't know how to react. "I will drag this out as long as I want, France," he threatened. But his voice grew softer and his rapidly blinking, fleeting eyes betrayed him. "Would you put a shirt on?! You're making me uncomfortable!" he roared, changing the subject.

"I can't," France smirked back at him. "It'll aggravate my back. I tried to warn you that I wasn't decent, but-"

"No matter. The butler told me you were ill so I called upon the doctor. He will be here shortly. Though you seem more injured than ill."

Was that . . . was that supposed to be some kind of dig? Some kind of jab? France couldn't tell - if it was a dig it was weak, trying to call him a liar. If it wasn't, what was his point? The frailty of the comment weakened France's constitution and drained the power to fight with the man behind it so quickly and completely, he sighed tiredly and flopped back down, all his bite gone.

"Yes, well," France said awkwardly, wanting to break the tension. He just didn't have the energy or the care to fight. Plus, if he became too heated his back would start hurting. Not in front of Louis. He would not look weak in front of Louis. "Nations have the unfortunate pleasure of physically hurting alongside their country. I may get sick, pending the effects of this stalemate with the Assembly.

Louis nodded. "Yes, I received your letter. You want to break the impasse with Calonne's dismissal?"

"Exile, actually."

"That seems a bit . . . excessive coming from you."

"Why? You had a pretty easy time with it the last time you sent someone away from the palace." Ouch. France's lip curled up in a smirk. That was a good one. Louis opened his mouth to protest but France spoke quickly over him. "The Notables will never listen to anything he has to say anymore. We need someone new. New ideas, new presentations. And I suggest it's someone who already has the people's support. Someone who doesn't have to try and win their hearts while he tries to win they're minds."

"I truly am sad about Calonne," Louis said absently, fiddling with a ring on his finger. "I don't want to get rid of him. I like him, and he still has my full confidence."

"I understand that, but he didn't have the majority's support. Neither did you, if you think about it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it was just as much your proposal as it was Calonne's. And they rejected it."

"I just thought . . . I don't know. I confess I feel betrayed."

"Well that's why someone new, who the people support, will reunite you and them. I say you try and bring back-"

France and Louis both offered the man in their thoughts at the same time:

France- "Jacques Necker."

Louis- "Étienne Brienne."

"Who?" France asked. Louis froze up. Unsure how to react, what to do. Afraid of France's tongue if he repeated the answer France didn't approve of. "Who?" he asked again, craning his neck.

Luckily for Louis, the doctor arrived to save him. "Shall I get that?" Louis asked happily, obviously relieved. He strutted over to the door and opened it to the startled face of the physician.

" _Votre Majesté!_ " he said, bowing deeply. "You sent for me? To see Monsieur Bonnefoy?"

"Oui, he's in here." Louis stepped aside and let him in.

He took one look at France's back and said, "Ouch! How in the world did that happen?"

"I ail as France ails," he said softly.

"Pardon?"

"I was thrown off a horse. Is it alright if _Sa Majesté_ and I continue while you're here? We were just discussing something urgent."

" _Oui, bien sûr_ , if it is first alright with him," he said, turning back to Louis.

Louis frowned deeply, but France could see he couldn't think of a reason why not. He nodded grudgingly.

"Why Brienne?" France asked as the doctor took a closer look at the scratch. "Who is this Brienne?"

"Étienne Charles de Loménie de Brienne. Marie actually recommended him to me, with her full support. She practically demanded he be instated. I personally don't like him, but he was the President of the Assembly-"

"Oh! So this carriage wreck had a PRESIDENT! Glad I knew!" France said sarcastically, wincing as the doctor lightly prodded the wound. He fought through the other natural reactions of excruciating pain since Louis was still looking at him.

"It didn't break your skin," the doctor said, "and it didn't draw any blood, but I'm still going to wipe it down and clean it out. It's hot to the touch, and has the possibility of infection."

"Merci."

"Oui, France, it did have a President. Brienne was Monsieur Calonne's most ardent opponent, and though I find him to be shallow among other things, I cannot deny that he brought much to my attention much that I had not previously considered, and otherwise wouldn't have considered with Calonne."

"Did he?" France questioned incredulously. "Care to-" A freezing cold towel touched his back and he sucked a breath in through his teeth as the man roughly scrubbed, washing it out. "Care to- . . . indulge me?"

"No. Even if you find them good ideas I know you'll find some way to oppose them. Just so I'll consider your man."

"You're kidding, right?" France asked. "Do you - Ow! - think me that - Ngh! - shallow? - WOULD YOU EASE UP?" he yelled. "You're hurting me!"

"I'm barely touching it, Monsieur! Is it that tender? We may have a problem!"

There was no way. Each stroke was like he was scrubbing clothes on a washboard. Each fiber of the cloth shot white-hot lightning bolts across the length of it, stinging and burning. "It's a SCRATCH, _mon ami_ , of COURSE it's tender!" he quipped. "Do you think me that shallow, Louis? Because if I'm being honest," he snarled, anger reawakened by his pain, "I accused you of the exact same thing!"

Louis rolled his eyes like a child. "I want the best for France-"

"And yet, when it comes along . . . " France began, spreading his arms wide on the bed.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You and I clearly have very different ideas of what that is."

"How in the world could you not understand that I-"

"Leave us," Louis said quickly to the doctor. "You may continue when we are finished." The man rose and bowed silently, slinking from the room. As soon as the door shut Louis sighed. "France, I merely want to keep my options open. Even since before you left, I . . . Can you really blame me for not immediately trusting you completely again?"

"Yes! Yes I can! Options? I have given you more than enough options."

"I let you collaborate with Calonne, but that was a bust. So now it's time for me to consult someone else. You need to suppress your childish jealousy, and let me, the King of France, make decisions since yours. did. not. work."

"Only because of you! How many decisions have you made since your ascension? How many things have you brought to Parliament on your own, without me pushing you? I'll give you a hint: none! None, Louis! I used to think it was an act, but now I'm sincerely starting to believe that you're simple. The second you're left on your own, you panic. You panic, you freeze up. You stagnate. Look at the entire time I was in Paris. You need me. Don't you DARE pretend that I'm in your way!"

"How DARE you-"

"How dare YOU! I represent FRANCE! The people! The land! Everything!" He jabbed his finger in Louis' direction. "You don't do a THING without it effecting me! And I've been dealing with ill-effects since Louis XV! God, ever since you stepped into power I've wished for Louis XIV back. If you could've seen our might, our majesty, our riches, our ease of comfort under him, you'd be in AWE! That's a direct result of years and years, decades, of planning, stabilizing. Each estate needs to be comfortable within themselves. And he and I worked and worked and worked to achieve that. We finally reached strong leadership, with the occasional input from me about something a little extra to placate the people . . . "

He had to calm down. Yelling wouldn't help, it would only make Louis shut down. He sighed. "You understand that there is no government without the people, right? All that I've done has never- I'm not trying to-" His thoughts tangled in his head, the right, riveting words he wanted escaped him. He tried to talk it out. "You don't understand. You have this idea in your head that's it's you versus the people. I don't know who put it there. Parliament, maybe? The top two Estates? It doesn't matter. But from that moment, it became you versus them, rather than you working with them. The instant they began to struggle was the instant things started to turn awry. And you continuously took my suggestions and decisions as siding with the people and against you! Diminishing your power by stepping in control where you wouldn't. But all I was doing was trying to make your job as easy as possible. I am every bit as content with the monarchy as you are, and I was only trying to achieve such stability that your hardest decision would be where to apportion the crown's steady income, just like Louis XIV. He had the easiest, smoothest run I've ever had a King make! The French monarchy has been stable for generations of the Bourbon House! I was just trying to achieve it again!"

He looked up and saw that he had Louis' attention. For once. "We don't have fun jobs, you and I. Or easy jobs. Comfortable, yes. But not easy. And if it's hard on you, you can bet it's a hundred times worse for the Nation. You need to start understanding that I don't want you to pass what I want just because it goes against what you think is right. You need to understand that . . . that the alleviation of my symptoms goes hand in hand with France's stability. I know how to fix me. I know how to fix France. And no, it may not be what you expect, or what you want, and it certainly isn't what Parliament wants. But it's what France needs. And you have got to work with me, here! You have got to kick the habit of being swayed by the last person that you talked to! You're hurting my attempts at stability. Parliament is too, but I am powerless without you. They are not. That's the only difference between me and them. Ok? It's time for you to get your head out of your-"

"And that's exactly what I'm doing!" Louis said. "That's why I'm exiling Calonne from France completely, as you requested. But I want Brienne instated in his place, not Necker."

"Oh, _Mon Dieu_ -"

"You've lost the topic of this conversation, France!"

"You know? I've figured it out! You are compulsively allergic to the truth! You call me stubborn and yet-"

"While you were absent these last few days, I already ran it by Parliament, and Brienne has their support as well."

"I can't believe I just gave you the entire logic behind why I do what I do and want what I want and you still-"

"I still what, France? I assumed you'd be proud! You lazed around for DAYS in here! Wallowed in your misery after the one fail of the Assembly! So I took the initiative! Just like you've always wanted! And now that you've come back, now that you've CRAWLED out of the shadows, you're upset that I made a decision? Who is the hypocrite here, France? WHO?"

"We both are," he said. "Two hypocrites who never practice what they preach. Do what you want, I suppose. You're going to anyway. I may as well give you my false blessing to make myself feel better." France knew he was in the wrong here. He knew Louis was right in this circumstance but only this circumstance. He disappeared for days, and suddenly showed back up angry at the progress made? He tried to say that it wasn't in the right direction, that the progress was going to lead them into more disaster when Brienne failed, but he couldn't force himself to believe that. Louis was right. At least right now.

"I have nothing more to say to you. I'm instating Brienne, and exiling Calonne. _Des problèmes, des questions_?"

"Non."

"Good. Sir?" he yelled, calling to the physician. He stormed past him on the way out.

" _Bâtard_ ," France muttered, absolutely fuming. He would never see. And he had more nerve to call France the stubborn one? He thought France was the one blinded by selfishness? Of all the stupid things . . .

No. France wasn't the problem. No matter what twisted logic Louis used to try and make him believe it, he never would.

Louis was the problem.

But really, what did he expect? Why did he continually do that to himself, expect something to change? Something to be better? Why did he think that a victorious verbal sparring match with Louis would change Louis' mindset, his opinions, his willingness? It was like Louis was determined to see France's downfall. Just to spite him.

He sighed tiredly. He replayed the conversation back in his head, but all it did was make his heart feel sick. Back to square one. Back to stagnation. He exhausted all of his verbal, physical, emotional, psychological resources on the Assembly, on Louis, on himself. Now what?

 

**_April 5, 1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_ **  
**_France's Bedchamber_ **

Nothing.

The Assembly was supposed to convene again, but by then it had become a farce. One big jest. He could picture all the laughs, all the pointing fingers, angry shouts, dismissive gestures and whispers of rumors and they were all directed at him, standing meekly in the center. He decided the night before he wasn't going.

France still woke up poorly that morning.

He stirred, floating gently towards awareness, but the bed was too warm and his back was too comfortable and the blankets had accepted him as one of their own. He didn't want to betray their cozy trust. The world was too bright for his lids when he tried to open them so they forced themselves back shut, screaming "No! Please no!". He was right there with them. His brain felt weak, slow, and he could practically feel the onset of the dizzy, disengaged, and off-putting feeling sitting up would bring him. Lethargic, the more he lay there the more tired his eyes and his body grew, the more stiff his neck grew, and the more tight his spine wound from laying on his stomach for days on end. For two hours he slipped in and out of sleep, never falling deep enough for rest or refreshment but not necessarily awake, wishing desperately that he could just roll over but . . .

By the time he actually woke up, unable to fall back asleep anymore no matter how hard he tried, and by the time he found the morning's motivation to simply move, never mind getting up, it was already 11:30. Almost not morning.

He had about three hours to ignore the guilt balling in his stomach for not going. Guilt! For what, exactly? There was no way he was willingly going to go there and face Louis and this new Brienne man! No way was he going to bow down and submit! All he would do was perpetuate Louis' idea that no matter what, he could always do whatever he wanted. He could walk all over France, and France would always come back. He just prayed that this guilt wasn't a National call to action to go to this thing. If it was it would only get worse as the Assembly loomed closer. Because he knew deep down that he could never ignore those calls; he would always listen whether he wanted to or not, even if it ruined the symbolism behind his defiance. National duty didn't care if Francis Bonnefoy had a point to prove.

France wished that for once those calls would understand that he was doing his best. Doing the best with what he had. With Louis' pig-headedness, with the Assembly and Calonne, with self-control and perseverance, with everything. Then maybe they wouldn't be so harsh. "Well, you're trying, and we know you're trying, so here's a bit of relief for you."

He slowly kicked the covers off and stuck his legs off the bed, rolling to a sitting position. As soon as his head was upright that odd feeling slammed into his forhead, right between his eyes. Instantly light-headed, like his head was bobbing on rough waves. His mind went blank, his brain rolled messily around in his head, his equilibrium tipped to the right. His eyes lost focus, the room smeared and reset, smeared and reset. France toppled over sideways, luckily catching himself with his arm and propping himself up on his elbow. The light-headedness spread across his eyebrows in the form of a pressure, building and building until it reached his temples and spiderwebbed into a full-blown, splitting headache. He dumbly, unwittingly leaned forward in pain and spilled to the side, falling off the bed face first. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his thumbs harshly into his temples, waiting for everything to subside, his breathing the only constant he had to cling to.

He thought of laying back down, but looking back at the bed, at his place of confinement, the last thing he wanted to do was crawl back in there. Or move.

Only three hours.

 

An absolute waste of a morning. Waste of emotion. Of sentiment.

He couldn't believe he felt guilty at all.

He fought his headache. He groaned through the pulsing of his temples. He fought off the black in his vision, the randomly occurring dizzy spells, the urge to drop where he was. He had the doctor come to his room and bandage his back, just so he could function while he had a shirt on. He blinked blearily through the patterns on his clothes that screwed up his eyes and brought on the feeling of throwing up or falling over. He went to the trouble of getting dressed, of dragging his heavy and dead limbs out of his bed, out of his room. Trudging tiredly, each step as heavy as his eyelids. Like he hadn't slept for days.

To be fair, he really hadn't slept. Not through the night.

And then when he got there, when he set foot in the antechamber designated to contain the destruction of this earthquake, when he looked around, all of his efforts felt wasted.

It was so pathetic. So disappointing. What was once the manifestation of his desperation and hope was thoroughly trampled out. There were maybe 20 people in attendance. 20. Out of the original 144. Most of them were milling around, trying to strike up a conversation with each other in hushed whispers, but France heard them sour and turn awkward fast in the wake of the fact that they were the only ones talking, and there was only one thing to talk about. Louis sat dejected in his seat of honor, fist shoved unceremoniously into his cheek, eyes to the floor, clearly bored out of his mind. Someone who France could only assume was Brienne sat beside him, whispering urgently to him. His back was to France. He couldn't see his face.

France's lips thinned into a pursed line. " _Right_ ," he thought, nodding his acceptance as his eyes scanned the scene around him. " _Uh-huh. I should've known. I should've known._ "

He did know. He guessed it before he ever fathomed getting out of bed. But he supposed that something subconscious somewhere inside of him was still searching for vindication, validation. He couldn't say why. The human inside of him's nature, he guessed. Hurt again and again, but still trusting in the innate-but-buried-and-suppressed goodness in people, and continuously willing to open himself up to more. Could he blame himself? Not necessarily. He wanted to believe in the good in people, he really did. But that sub-level desire inside of him constantly failed to realize that society was not idealistic, defeat after defeat. French high society demanded ruthlessness, selfishness. Louis wasn't a good person. The courtiers weren't good people. Parliament wasn't a body of good people. Could he blame them? Not necessarily, either. They knew how to play the game. Where Louis flawed over them was in the fact that he was just starting to understand desperation as opposed to blindness, and STILL did nothing about it in the name of selfishness. He was understanding that everything he knew was on the verge of collapse, and yet he tried to deny and avoid the seriousness of it as he stared the people's beast in the mouth. He didn't understand, and France doubted he ever would understand the extent to which it was falling apart. Because if he did he would try as sorely and critically and fearfully as France. He would listen to France, he would use France for rebuilding rather than for a rug. Sure, France understood that people were self-centered, greedy. At least consciously he did. He could still be subconsciously idealistic if he learned to surround himself with people who embodied the ideals. Otherwise, there was no excuse. He just simply had to prepare. He could dream, and he could wish, as long as he was on guard.

As if to laugh at him, to spite him, his headache flared. His vision slid away and went black so fast in the wake of the abrupt pain he couldn't prepare, and he leaned over grasping at his head. He tried to lead himself over to the wall, blindly throwing his arm out to hopefully feel it before he bumped embarrassingly into it. Before he even touched it his weakened knees buckled. His shoulder rocketed full force into the wall and he leaned there, waiting tensely to recover from the vertigo before he blacked out.

He still felt everything start to slant to the side despite his lack of vision. He straightened up in an attempt to force it away faster, and to his relief it worked. He was glad he had the wall to lean on. Otherwise he knew he would've been on the floor. His sight faded back in quickly; he slowed his breathing and massaged his headache back into a manageable state before raising his eyes again. He was done here. Time to leave.

Unfortunately, when he careened into the wall he garnered Louis' attention. Louis and France made direct eye contact, and Louis blinked in pleasant surprise, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. He beckoned France forward with a finger and gestured to the seat beside him, but France froze. Froze, forgot every pretense of his grudge against Louis and instead withdrew in instinctual panic. He stepped back, his eyes wide, a cold chill shooting down his spine into every nerve, so icy he shuddered. No, no, no! Absolutely not! He was not doing that to himself. Seeing how far it had fallen from a second-hand point of view, from word of mouth and the feeling in his gut, was enough. It probably aggravated is headache in the first place. Knowing it was going to crash and burn today. He did not need to see it for himself.

He shook his head furiously at Louis, momentarily forgetting about his headache, and he had to freeze and cradle his head again for a moment. When he looked up again Louis' surprised look slumped into a frown, then a look of concern at France's pain. Crap. France's surprise betrayed him. Caught off-guard, too shocked to cover up his weakness with his anger at Louis, which, after a second under pressure, he realized was a farce anyway. Louis could stuff his concern. He couldn't be angry anymore. Just irritated, tired. Before the guilt had a chance to creep up on France again he backed away from the room, holding Louis' gaze with a look of absolute terror he couldn't hide. Louis started, shuffling to the front of his chair to get up, but France turned and ran.

On the way back he stopped more than once, both for his head and for his feelings of dejection and heartache. Melancholy. Despair. Call it what you will. What was going on on the outside? In Paris? He didn't have the desire to walk around the town of Versailles anymore. Things were too good. This world was so complacent, uninteresting, and dead to him. Versailles was dead, Versailles would always be dead. No matter how many people were there, no matter what was happening at the palace, it would be dead. And cold. He wondered what was happening on the outside, what was going on in Paris. Was Robespierre still a crowd favorite? Was there still color to be had, energy and vitality and passion to be seen? Was it violent passions? Or the passions of life? Or maybe both? Were Bread Riots still a normal occurrence? How volatile were the crowds that gathered illegally? How often did a home get destroyed the same way France's was? He was detached. Abandoned and alone.

He wanted their influence again. Their anger. Their passion.

Versailles drained the energy he needed to pursue it.

The Assembly dissolved that day.

 

**_April 10, 1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_ **  
**_France's Bedchamber_ **

"What would you like me to write in the letter, Monsieur Bonnefoy?" the scribe asked, pen poised at the ready on the parchment on France's desk.

"In English, please. Address it to Britain. Next line- Send my regards, and my regrets, to Spain. Sign it from Francis Bonnefoy - B-O-N-N-E-F-O-Y - semicolon, Le Royaume de France."

"Oui, Monsieur. Where am I sending this to?"

" _Palacio Real de Madrid_ \- Royal Palace of Madrid, Spain - to the temporary resident Arthur Kirkland," he said, tripping over the awkward Spanish as it rolled off his tongue.

 

**_April 13, 1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_ **  
**_France's Bedchamber_ **

Spain's conference.

It was a really, terribly difficult decision for France, but . . .

No.

Just no.

France rolled to his side and tried to go back to sleep.

 

**_April 18, 1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, ?_ **

_He had no idea where he was. What he was doing there. Why he was running._

_But he was afraid for his life._

_There was only one way to run in the grey, dark corridor. The yellowing wallpaper, once immaculate white now caked with dirt, cracked and peeled. Dirty windows let in brown, disgusting light, corrupted by dust particles everywhere. Planks of wood and pieces of the architecture littered the floor everywhere. Mirrors broken, the marble floors cracked and chipped away completely in some places. He didn't even know what he was running from. But it was scary, and it tied ropes around his heart and drug it towards the floor in dread. He heard clanks and shouts, the sounds of weapons. He saw the dancing light of the torches and heard stomps, bangs, glass shattering._

_It was a mob. A mob of the people was after him. To kill him. To murder him for his failures. Fear rose inside of him like a wave and heaved his heart back up into his throat. Fear of pain. Fear of destruction. Fear of what was to come. The darkness. His breath hitched and a scream of fear rocketed from his mouth as he tried to run even faster than before. A hot gust of air hit him in the back and he chanced a backwards glance to see the people running after him. Faces twisted in sick, grotesque grins, ready to tear him limb from limb, ready to draw and quarter him with their own hands. A black mass, a sable horde of dark energy, stretched the width of the hallway behind them, chasing him with the crowd to swallow up anything they left of him. The already decrepit building degenerated faster wherever it touched, wherever its tendrils ventured hungrily, searching for him. Splinters cracked, broken mirrors and windows spiderwebbed._

_He pushed himself faster and faster, as fast as he could possibly go. To his horror, the darkness surged forward as well, perfectly at pace with him. It crept up the crowd, swallowing them within its infinite maw as it dashed to catch him. Closer an closer, cold emanating off of it into his neck, seeping into his skin, slowing him down The end of the corridor came up quickly on him, and he tried to snap around the corner. His bare feet slipped on the dirt, the grime, the mold. It coated him thickly, gumming his whole body into a sluggish mess. He crashed into the wall ahead of him instead. France huffed like a train. Realization that he was dead, that it would kill him, hit him hard. He couldn't turn to look as it engulfed him._

_He fell, weightless in the clutches of the blackness._

_He landed on his back, and was surprised when it didn't hurt him. He looked around in alarm before a rope lashed around his throat from behind, choking him. Disoriented, he kicked and struggled, desperately trying to jam his fingers between the rope and his skin, throat gagging and snorting as it tried to suck in air. His attacker leaned over him and sneered with pride in his face, and who he saw made France falter._

_"Spain?" he mouthed, no air escaping to form the word. His face stretched into a smile, stretched and stretched until it nearly split his ears, and France fought to get away, to distance himself from this creature. In his hesitation another person strung ropes around his arms and wrists, and Spain hoisted him up so they could force his limbs behind his back. Prussia. America and Britain leapt from the shadows encircling him and the former held him down completely with his strength while the latter roped his legs and ankles._

_The last person to emerge from the blackness around him was Austria. He calmly strutted forward as opposed to the others who crawled and jumped like wild beasts. He straddled France's worming body and leaned far over, staring deeply into his face. Behind the cracked glasses his eyes were black balls, as black as the darkness that chased him, and its tendrils pooled and snapped out of his sockets, kissing France's face with needle-like stabs. France squeezed his eyes shut and turned away but Spain squeezed the rope tighter and forced France's head straight._

_The Austria before him cupped his chin roughly. "France," it hissed on top of a throaty growl._

_He screamed in fear and wrestled to pull away_

_"France!" The monster pulled his hand back and slapped France hard._

France's eyes snapped open and the first thing he saw was Austria, still with his hand on France's chin, squeezing his cheeks.

He shrieked in absolute terror and slid his arms under his pillow, scrabbling for the knife he kept buried there just in case. He whipped it out and stabbed it over the side of the bed at the monster but it was fast. Too fast for France. It deflected his hand with its forearm and shoved him roughly away into the headboard, ripping the weapon from his hand.

"You sleep with a knife now?" Wait. That voice. Annoying, whiny, German accented. Normal. Not monstrous or growling. France blinked to full awareness and met Austria's wildly smirking, condescending face.

"A-Austria? _Diable_! What are you doing here?!" France knew exactly what he was doing here. He remembered the letter. He just didn't really want to deal with it. Didn't want to react. Didn't know how to react. He supposed it depended on what Austria said.

"I have been granted a leave of absence to travel with the Austrian virtuoso Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart on his tour across Europe. I took his performances in France as an opportunity to get to the bottom of this. Despite the aid you gave Prussia during my War of Succession and his seizing of Silesia, which I have not forgotten about, I have decided, out of the goodness of my heart, to check on your well-being. I guess you ignored Spain's letters, too. Thanks for that, now I know not to take it personally. That must've been a horrible dream. You were screaming something terrible. Someone would've thought you were being stabbed."

France wiped at the sweat on his neck and face and slumped back against the headboard, glad for the bandages protecting his scrape. "Well, when you've been shot in the head in your own home in your own capital, you learn to prepare!" he quipped nastily.

Austria face fell into a frown but before he could question France, another voice spoke up. Speaking French. "He says he's been planning to come for about five days, now. He says he sent letters." France followed the voice and saw Louis perched worriedly on the couch in his room, Marie next to him working as Austria's and Louis' translator. Well, she seemed worried. He just looked annoyed. "Why didn't you inform me of Austria's visit, France?"

Oh, great. Louis and Austria, a formidable combination. " _J'ai oubliée_ ," he lied. "I forgot."

"Ha! As if you would!" Austria snorted. He turned to Louis, addressing him in German. "Spain, Prussia, Britain, Canada - formerly your father's New France, _Eure Majestät_ ," he said. France snorted before he could stop himself. It had been so long since he heard the sound of any language other than French or a romantic language, a long time since he heard Prussia's scratchy, gruff tones. It just sounded ridiculous to him that Austria showed up randomly at his palace and start using his own ugly language, winning the favor of his monarch. He probably did come with good intentions but siding with Louis from the start and not listening to France wouldn't help anybody. Except Louis. And he didn't need any more help.

Austria paused and cleared his throat, then continued speaking to Louis like France wasn't even there. "Spain, Prussia, Britain, Canada, the United States, Italy Veneziano - via the Holy Roman Empire, and myself ALL sent him letters."

Louis waited patiently for Marie's translation. "So you have been ignoring them then?" Louis asked, wide eyes probing France for an answer.

France's defenses instantly fortified. "So what if I am?" he asked. "You've been ignoring me just as obviously."

"Don't be ridiculous-" Austria started, cutting Marie off mid-translation.

"Oh, SHUT IT, Austria!" he snapped. "You have NO IDEA what's been going on in France! NO IDEA!" he shouted, abandoning Louis and Marie for the catch-all language of the Nations.

"Only because you've been shutting us out."

" _Ta Gueule_! Do you have any idea WHY?"

" _Ja_ ," he said haughtily. "We have all had struggles! We have all had pains, you baby! It comes with the job! It doesn't mean that after one little rough patch you-"

Every time he thought of explaining the extent to which he was hurting, to which France was failing, to which Louis was an IDIOT, he felt drained. Just the thought of delving deep into his own self just for the sake of someone else's surface understanding made him upset, made him deeply irritated and frustrated. It made the weight press down harder on him. It made him want to stay in bed, made him pity himself. Austria wouldn't understand.

He furiously started ripping at his buttons, pulling at his shirt to get it off over his head. As soon as the bandages were exposed Austria stopped in fearful curiosity. France tugged and ripped as carefully, but as quickly as he could, wincing as the bandages ripped away from the ever-so-slight seepage that started to leak the last few days. As soon as the scrape was free he popped to his knees on the bed and rolled around so Austria could see his wound.

France couldn't see all of Austria's face over his shoulder, but he saw the color in his face drain and his eyes widen. "Does this look like a LITTLE rough patch?!" he yelled, slightly smug that he finally shut Austria up. "Hm? Does it? It is SO much more than that, _mon ami_ ," he said without the slightest touch of affection. He sent a pointed glance at Louis and Marie and Austria followed his gaze.

" _Was meint er damit?_ " he asked Marie.

" _Ne fais pas ça! Ne parle pas Allemand!_ How dare you come to my house, demand things from me, accuse me, before you understand the whole picture. How dare you. If I say I don't want to talk to you, then stop sending me letters. If I say I want to be left alone, then leave me alone! This is much, much bigger, much worse than you ever imagined, _Autriche_. So leave me the HELL alone!" He turned to Louis and Marie. "I want him gone." In French. So Austria couldn't understand. " _Je veux le parti_."

" _Nein_!" Marie said, slipping into German momentarily. " _Non_! We have arranged for Mozart to perform for us at Versailles. As long as Mozart is here, Austria is staying."

France got up off his bed and snatched up his shirt and soiled bandages. Crap. He'd have to get new ones. "Wherever he is I won't be. I can't talk to him-"

"Have you ever considered telling the Parliaments about the Nations?" he called to France's back.

France paused. Did he?

Maybe that was what he should do. Why not?

Oh my God.

Maybe he should just tell Parliament. Just try and convince them that he knew! That he knew best for France since he freaking WAS. FRANCE. Why in the world didn't he think of that before? As in, as soon as things started to go awry? And why, he added in a twist of bitterness, did he have to hear it from AUSTRIA? God, he felt so STUPID, so blinded by panic and grief and pain. Just as blind as Louis. Just as erroneous as Louis. He also felt relief. He felt relieved to finally, FINALLY have a plan! Granted, he'd have to wait for Brienne to pan out first. He had to wait for Louis to be directionless before he offered his solution. Fine. He'd have two solutions for Louis when that time came: bringing in Necker, and offering up the truth to Parliament. Hell, he'd take a bullet if it meant proving it to them sooner. He felt so embarrassed for . . . for everything, he thought glumly. He thought his world was over but if saving it meant offering up himself in the process then he was going to. What kind of Nation was he if he wasn't prepared to do that for himself? For his land?

A brief moment of doubt flickered in his mind like a nearly snuffed out candle. If it failed . . . then what? If they chose to ignore him further, if they refused to still work with him, then he was done. He'd never accomplish anything ever again for Louis XVI.

He made a decision: if it didn't work, he would leave Versailles. He would leave, and he would take up arms with the people any way he had to. Just like he promised before he even returned.

He swore he would mean it this time.

 

**_April 20, 1787_ **  
**_L'orangerie, Les Jardins de Versailles_ **

"I honestly thought you were coming here to attack me. What changed your mind?" France asked, leading Austria out one of the doors into the crisp air.

"I honestly did come here to attack you! Ignoring all of us was extremely rude of you. Verging on painful for Spain and Prussia."

"Hm. Rude," France repeated, " _Désolé_ , I suppose. Sorry. I was just . . . well to sum it up, tired."

"I know that now, but I'm not the one you need to apologize to. I wasn't necessarily bothered. Spain and Prussia were. You looked bad not answering our letters, but while most were mad, those two were mostly concerned. They asked me to send a letter to Maria directly, rather than through you. So I corresponded with Maria, and she said everything was fine with you. When you didn't respond even then our concern turned to anger. The others grew fearful. I received my leave of absence to tour with Mozart, and it was Prussia who suggested I check up on you. Have you ever heard Mozart play?" They reached one of the brown barriers around a quarter of the spiral paths so France waited until they stepped over it to continue.

"I vaguely remember his first tour when he was a child. He was amazing back then."

"He's even better now! Phenomenal! A compositional genius, an incredible performer. He writes his own concertos, and each cadenza is different every time he plays it. He publishes them again and again with new cadenzas he improvises on stage that he remembers and writes down afterwards to sell more copies of his music." France nodded, delighted by Austria's passion. "The way he combines sonata form with solo work is just wonderful - he's calling it double exposition sonata form! The arias in his _opera buffas_ are absolutely- Sorry," he said sheepishly, adjusting his glasses. "I get very excited about his music. I probably lost you a while ago."

"It's ok," France said, smiling genuinely at him. He didn't realize just how badly he missed having a Nation's presence. Having some sort of friend. Someone there he could connect with despite what he thought before. Being alone for so long, self-induced or not, feeling so alone, so dull, so surrounded by negativity . . . and while Austria was no best friend, his passionate presence was grounding and revitalizing. Watching someone else be happy about something for once . . . France's heart swelled with joy, indescribably comforted and thankful for pleasant interaction with another soul.

"Anyway," Austria began again. "You asked what changed my mind. Well, your condition, for one. Nations don't just let themselves fall to the wayside. It's impossible. The pains are too strong to ignore, and once we are compelled to do something, once something that could help us comes along, we are going to do it, to the best of our ability. Whether we want to or not. It's National impulse. We just cannot disobey. You wouldn't let yourself get to the point you're at now. Obviously it's a product of mismanagement."

"What point am I at?" France asked, alarmed by Austria's hint of quantification. Of maybe gauging the effects of this in the long run. "How long is the timeline, and at what point am I at?"

"I can't tell you, France. It's different for all of us. It depends on too many factors. What may be my final straw may not be yours. And how my final straw pans out won't be the same way yours does. But may I be honest?"

"Of course."

"Physical injury? From internal affairs? That doesn't bode well, France. Usually they come from warfare. How are Louis and Maria helping?"

"They're not. They made the financial situation worse! I've told him since 1776. I told him the moment we sent aid to America that we'd have to be careful about money. Marie just spent and spent and spent, we had to take out more loans, the deficit just kept getting bigger and bigger, and Louis failed to try and grasp how the tax imbalance harmed things. Do you have any idea how much we're in debt?"

"How much?" Austria asked, crossing his arms tightly as they strolled, glaring at his shoes, troubled. France let a soft smile grace his lips at Austria's nuances. He was so frugal he almost couldn't function, and the anxiety of hearing about France's poor financial situation started creeping up on him.

"Last time Calonne checked half a year ago it was 1.3 billion livres-"

He looked up sharply. " _Mein Gott_ -"

"Do you know how much it is now?"

"How much?"

"Six billion livres. I don't know how much that is in your currency, but . . . six billion." France stopped walking so they could focus on the conversation. "Calonne tried to implement tax reforms to stabilize the crown's income, and we had Louis' backing. Though I think by that point he was thinking 'Just do whatever you want, whatever you think you should.' They were rejected by the Parliaments."

"And Louis can't overrule them?"

"Oui, he can, but they convinced him otherwise. He has no spine, Austria!"

"Hm. Maria said as much in her initial letters after she first met him. That was my other clue that it wasn't simply you being snooty old you," he said jokingly.

He looked up quickly. "I'd rather be beautiful and snooty than boring and stuffy!" France kid back. He cocked his head and they continued their promenade around the shapes and spirals. "The finances are only the root of the problem. Parliament is the water, making it blossom. The public is frustrated as well. They see the poor management causing them worse pain. They understand the lack of action and change. They're upset with the system. They're frustrated with the fact that just because they weren't born noble, they deserve to be stepped on their entire lives. They want to be allowed to better their situation. They want the right to . . . to live."

"I understand. The entirety of Europe watched America break from Britain," he said, looking at France earnestly.

"They're turning violent. They're pillaging their own towns, looting nobles, destroying businesses, homes, bread because of the harvests failing. Which was just another petal on the blossoming flower of problems. They attacked me in my district. Barged into my home, attacked me. Shot me in the leg and brought me down, then shot me in the back of the head."

"So that's what you meant earlier."

"Yes. I haven't gotten anything passed since . . . I can't even remember. I either ran into the Parliamentary road block or the Louis road block if he didn't agree with me right from the start. The people are angry, and both are effecting me so deeply . . . I feel like I don't even know who I am anymore as a monarchy, as a nation, and as a Nation. Things are spiraling out of control, and I am so afraid that it's only a matter of time before I collapse. Before things totally turn violent, before everything is flipped upside down, and I . . . " He looked up into Austria's face and hesitated when it was marred with a serious frown.

"France," Austria said sternly. "Stop it."

"No, you don't understand! I am genuinely concerned that-"

"Stop it!" Austria roughly grabbed France's shoulder, as if to shake the thought from his mind. "You're allowed to be afraid. But you're not going to fade. I promise. You're not."

"How do you know? Every time I think about Rome, I get this pit feeling and it doesn't feel like anything will ever be right again, and I can't help but entertain the notion that something bad's going to happen and I won't be able to handle it and one day I'll just fade away no warning did you know it was so strong I went to Notre Dame and-"

Austria furiously shook his head. "No, France. No. Everything is going to be fine."

"But how. do. you. know?"

Austria paused. "We're young, you and I. Young of human age and young of Nation age. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that our human age doesn't matter. We age as Nations. Right?"

"What's that have anything to do with-"

"Let me speak. How long have you been physically 20 or so?"

"Since . . . the end of Louis XIV."

Austria nodded. "I would look at this as a growth opportunity then, rather than a threatening circumstance. France has been the same for almost a hundred years, now. Maybe the people, maybe your symptoms are just trying to propel France forward. Trying to help France grow the way it needs to grow. I'm not saying it should be with violence, because that's not going to feel like growth. That's just going to hurt. But after talking to Maria I feel Louis is honestly trying, he's just ill-equipped and unsure. Maybe France is trying to grow and change and Parliament is holding you back."

"So how do I get rid of them, then?"

"I can't tell you that. You need to work with Louis, work with the dynamic of your court to figure that out."

"And if you're wrong?"

"You're in pain, yes, but there's new stubble on your chin. You're growing. Not all of you is falling apart. I don't think I'm wrong."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you have time!


	9. Chapter 9

**_June 2, 1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_ **  
**_France's Bedchamber_ **

France took a careful, genuine approach to Spain's letter.

_'Spain, mon ami,_

_Thank you for sending Austria. Merci beaucoup._

_I know I have much explaining to do. So let me just preface this with an apology._

_I am so sorry._

_Things in France are not going well at all. They haven't been going well for a little over a decade. No doubt by now Austria sent some word of my plights. They're painful. But they are no excuse for how I acted. I panicked, and overreacted, and I took it out on all of you by pushing you away and rejecting your concern for me. I'm so sorry. For the conference, for everything._

_Je suis très désolé. Not that it sounds any better in my native tongue. Lo siento. Ugh, never mind. It does. We all know the amorous sound of French over that of Spanish.'_

Spain would know he was kidding. Playful jabs were his type of humor. 

_'I want to see you. Firstly to apologize in person, and secondly and mostly just to see you. To talk to you, to laugh with you. To hear your voice. Austria was a nice surprise, but he made me realize how much I miss you and Prussia. My best amis. The trio. As soon as your King and Queen give you a leave, come to Versailles. We can have a night on the town._

_Hopefully we can arrange a time with Prussia._

_Until we see each other again._

_Au revoir,  
_ _Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

 

He took an entirely different approach to Prussia's.

  
_'Prussia,_

_Look who's back and better than ever! This apologetic asshole- I mean Frenchman!_

_So . . . you deserve an apology. An on my knees, desperate, crying apology. Sorry you had to hear about France's status through Austria. Sorry I've been elusive, sorry I've been rude, sorry, sorry, sorry. I'm prepared to grovel on my knees before the ever-glorious Prussia and personally apologize for everything you prepare on a very detailed and extensive list. I'll even provide you with an artist to immortalize the moment if you want._

_But! I can't do that unless you and Spain come to Versailles! Then once the trio's back together, and you and Spain kick my ass, we can dedicate a whole night to alcohol, debauchery, and other mildly suggestive activities._

_In all seriousness, I really am sorry._

_Let me make it up to you.  
_

_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

Clockwork.

France looked up into Spain's face, grimacing as his face stretched into the evil, deformed grin. France's own mouth curled up in disgust and he withdrew as far as he could.

"Spain?" he mouthed, horror grabbing and twisting his innards so hard he felt he would be sick. As if it wasn't obvious to him anymore. Frozen in confusion and fear of the monster before him, he failed to see Prussia, America or Britain as they lashed ropes around him. Tied him down. Paralyzed him. Spain twirled another inch of excess rope around his hands and lifted France's back a whole foot off the ground so he could lean down and giggle darkly in his ear, forcing him to stare his torture, his demise, in the face. Oh, God, what would they do to him?! Austria arrogantly emerged from the shadows and leaned over him, pooling black eyes behind broken frames stabbing into his face. He pulled his hand back and France flinched for the slap, but rather than strike him the hand clamped harshly down on his shoulder, jarring him.

"Monsieur! Monsieur, wake up! Francis! FRANCIS!" he screamed, hot breath hissing in France's face. Suddenly Austria shook him. Shook him hard. Whipped him uncomfortably back and forth, thrashing and bucking his head back and forth until his eyes snapped open.

He would shoot awake, straight into the arms of a butler's red, wooly uniform. "Are you alright, Monsieur?" he asked every day. And France would come to. The terror would subside. His eyes would focus. He would realize where he was, what happened. That it was all a dream. Every morning.

Clockwork. Every morning, every single morning France woke up shaking in cold sweats from the same nightmare: running in unadulterated terror through the decrepit corridors of Versailles, away from the pain of the mob. Escaping from them, only to be swallowed up by the darkness. Spain choking him, smiling that smile, Prussia, America, and Britain hog-tying him, Austria harming him, jolting him awake. Every morning he woke up to someone shaking him, usually the same butler every day who heard him screaming. Every morning the butler caught France when he shot awake, talked him into lucidity, filled a bowl and a glass with water so he could wash his face and drink, even laid out the outfit France picked for the day. A serious breach of etiquette, running into his room uninvited when he wasn't going in to draw the curtains or start France's day, but France didn't mind at all. He saved France from whatever fate the dream-Nations had in store for him. Though he knew they could never physically hurt him, it took a toll on him, watching his friends twist into grotesque monsters before his eyes, ready and willing to do him harm. Every night, no matter what he did before he went to bed, when his eyes opened in the wastes he couldn't root himself in the dream, couldn't gain control. As soon as his feet hit the ground the fear tightened his chest and overtook his mind and his legs just started running in fear for his life.

At exactly 8:00 every other day the physician came, bandaged him up. They made small talk. He left by 8:30. France dressed. He brushed his hair, recently deciding to let his gold waves fly freely more often rather than tie them back with a ribbon. He felt more confident that way, more dazzling. He held himself higher, proudly brandishing his hair, his prized possession. Really his looks were the only thing he had left at the moment.

Just like clockwork.

But France decided he would make an effort to ignore it, to move past it, to not think about it, to fight through his aches and weakness, to change his bandages every time he felt dirty, to do anything other than let it cripple him. He figured he would rather die than slip back into the rut he had been in for years and years and years.

Austria's visit changed much for him.

He felt better, at least emotionally. Physically he was still a wreck but he was getting better, and was definitely better equipped to deal with it. Austria's wise sentiment grabbed him by the ankles and drug him forcefully out of the black pit, the crippling sadness he sunk into. It hefted him up, shoved him to his feet, lifted his chin, wiped his tears, gently slapped his cheeks, dusted him off and fixed his clothes. It pushed him forward, forced him to keep going until he realized he could go forward alone. It gave him a brighter, less destructive outlook on the future of the whole situation. He had a new mental and emotional clarity, a relaxed but confident new approach that was ready to work, and work hard. A new attitude and direction. Things would change. Hopefully.

He just still had to deal with the current pains. Louis. His back. Aching. Seeping. His dizziness and weakness. Shaking. Progressively getting worse. Physically still deteriorating, mentally ready to handle it.

Add the stress of working with Brienne on top of it all. That was the worst at the moment. The dread. The absolute stomach-churning fear that this man wasn't going to help France move in the right direction. Granted, France was ready to move himself in the right direction, but it was a matter of speed. With this man and Louis, if they were smart and swift and concise, France could be healing in a year or two. Without him . . . who knew?

And no, France thought proudly, that 'who knew' wasn't a desperate, despairing 'who knew'. It was merely an unfortunate, unforeseeable 'who knew'.

He prayed and prayed that this Brienne knew what he was doing. That he would listen to France if he wanted to change something about his proposals, if he wanted to add something, wanted to disagree. He hoped the man wouldn't be as affronted and immature as Louis if France took charge over him-

Stop.

He had to stop hoping. Now. Emotionally fortify and detach as much as possible. It did nothing except hinder him, amplifying the emotional response when his hopes did not pan out. He didn't need that for himself any more.

" . . . getting worse," the physician told him, ripping him from his thoughts.

"Hm?"

"I said that it seems to be getting worse. It's been a whole month! How did it go from not breaking your skin to opening up and seeping this badly?"

"Is it very deep?"

"No, but . . . it's concerning me. Is the pain worse?"

" _Tout à fait!_ "

France wondered if he should divulge this man. Probably, considering he would be the one everyone at Versailles would call upon if France ever keeled over in front of any humans. He didn't really care who found out anymore. Especially now that he was planning on telling Parliament anyway.

 

 ** _June 5, 1787_**  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_**  
**_Dining Room_**

"I sent you-" Louis began, jamming a disgustingly large bite of bread into his face, " . . . a summons this morning-" he washed it down with a sip of wine when he was ready, ". . . France."

God, he wasn't in the mood to be poisoned by Louis' toxicity. He already woke up volatile. "Did you?" France feigned ignorance, pretending to be too focused on his soup to look up at Louis. _"Désolé, Mon Roi_. I must have missed it."

Louis' chewing noises paused, and France froze. Oh crap. He probably knew France lied. Well, his 'I didn't get the message' excuse probably was wearing thin after those other two times. He swore to make June a month all to himself. He wanted to indulge himself, he wanted to be lazy, he wanted to relax. To do everything that he wanted to do, when he wanted to do it. To make himself happy despite what was going on around him. And recently he started blowing Louis off at this point to do whatever he wanted. Because at least while he was busy he could occupy his mind and body for a while. Ignore the pain. He could construct a flimsy, surface level of content, and maybe could at least fake being happy and healthy; maybe remember what it felt like so he had something to cling to. The ideal situation would be that he came back fully prepared mentally for Louis' next disaster. But he didn't want to hope anymore, so he entertained that notion without actually delving deep into what it meant to him.

It wasn't like Louis needed him, right? He had enough to worry about with both Prince Louis-Joseph and Princess Sophie-Hélène being ill. He wouldn't miss France.

"No, no, I know you received it. The butler returned to my quarters to tell me it was delivered to you directly."

He forced himself to keep eating calmly, normally, and tried to peer through his curtain of hair if Louis was staring at him.

"You were supposed to meet Brienne today. I want you two to collaborate."

"Oh, do you?" France asked incredulously. "I was under the impression that you thought me too immature to even listen to his ideas! Remember that conversation? Because I clearly do!"

Louis set his glass down hard, and the base banged loudly off the table. "Well, I changed my mind!"

"Big surprise there!" France slapped his own spoon down in a clear challenge and glared at Louis.

"I decided I don't want to continue until I hear your opinion too! I'm sorry that it's such an inconvenience to you!"

" _Mon Dieu_ , you're really going to embarrass yourself in front of Marie and all these people? You had my opinion for a decade." How many times did they have to go through this? Every time France told him he said he understood. And the next second he brushed France off like he forgot how much France mattered in this fragile situation. WHY? WHY did he do that? There was something wrong in his head. Something childish and selectively blind and deaf. Was he stalling? Or what? "I can't understand you, Louis Capet! One moment you treat me like I'm just some defiant teen you don't want around, the next moment you're desperate for my input. I don't know whether I should back off or throw my entire lot in because of how frequently you go back and forth."

France stood up, feeling like his June would be vindicated. "I am trapped. Trapped in a circle. You and I stand on opposite sides and we just go around and around and around, neither one gaining on the other. Don't ask for my opinion unless you're ready for it. I won't be bothered only to have the door slam in my face." To his embarrassment, a sharp twinge shot down his back and his knees crumpled. His arms stiffened to hold himself up, but Louis saw, everyone at the table saw. He took a deep, bracing breath and willed his knees to hold him up, and as he downed the rest of his wine, he glared over the glass at all of them. Bowing stiffly to the whole table, he walked out. Wow, that was mortifying.

 

 ** _June 10, 1787_**  
**_Le Château de Versailles, Parterre du Midi_**  
**_Overlooking Les Jardins l'orangerie_**

__

'Britain,

_As a dismal, dreary island all-too familiar with rain, you must also be familiar with the smell of rain._

_The clouds emit it like a sleeping agent. It descends upon the world, sedating it in a quiet, dream-like haze._

_It seeps into the air, and it sludges thick, suspended with the rise of humidity before the chill that comes holding hands with the first drop._

_The birds fall silent, the trees try to shake it off with a breeze but all it brings is more and more of the smell, coating the branches and leaves._

_The streets go quiet as people breathe it in. Permeating the air and hitting their nostrils. They retreat to their homes, put to sleep by how it clings to the inside of the bridge of their noses._

_It rises off the cobblestones and rooftops in verdant steams in the North, it mists the vineyards and pastures of the South._

_All the flowers wear it on their dresses like perfume. Every blade of grass, everything in nature that has a surface for it to rest on acts as its pillow._

_It sounds oppressive, non? It sounds miserable and sad, just like you._

_But it's not! It's pleasant! As I sit here writing, parchment curling up, it sedates me as well._

_It's absolutely beautiful._

_More beautiful than the rain itself._

_Refreshing._

_There's just one little problem._

_It's tainted. Unclean. Perverted._

_The entire world has you so closely associated with rain that all I can think about is your terrible face! It's ruining the beauty! Terrorizing my over-head view of the Versailles Gardens! Atrocious! And how dare someone as dull as you get to experience such beauty on a daily basis!_

_An eloquent, classy, and elegant poem about rain, by France:_

_"Britain is so ugly,_

_I swear I'm going to die._

_The raindrops are the sky's tears;_

_It looks at him and cries."_

_You're welcome._

_Hugs and kisses from France._

_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France_

_P.S. I miss you. Thank you for your letters and concern. I honestly do appreciate it, more than I could ever say. I'm in a considerably less volatile mood, and am doing much better than I was a few months ago. I'm feeling much more like my old self, if this letter didn't tip you off. Just pray it lasts a long while._

_I'm not going down that easily.'_

  


Pleased with himself for the truth in the last line, France folded up the letter and stuffed it in his coat pocket, leaning back in his chair. He deeply inhaled the aromas he described to Britain. It really did put a damper on things, he decided. It was hot and thick, not at all refreshing when it rushed into his lungs. But that wasn't important. The smell was important. The smell brought the dread for most people, and the dread of a potentially scary situation ruined the beauty. Rain wouldn't scare him, though. The rain would be worth it, since thunderstorms weren't a norm in France.

A gentle but threatening rumble roared across the countryside, and as he looked up into the ominous cloud, a gentle wind carried the chill's whispers. Despite the tenderness, it ghosted through his jacket and vest, cut right through his skin, raising the goosebumps on his arms. He shuddered, shutting the lid of the ink well to carry it inside. It wouldn't do to get caught in the middle of a storm-

A drop hit his hair. He murmured a hasty, " _Merde!_ " and instinctually ran forward a few steps to rush inside, but as the drop slid down the front of his face it felt warmer than he thought. Not at all as unpleasant as the clouds would lead him to believe. He paused in surprise to tilt his head back to test out the next few, and one hit above his eyebrow and dripped down his cheek. The next on his other cheek. His forehead. Just as amiable as the first one. Faster and faster until it was one right after the other, each one slapping his face, jarring him mild shock.

In a split second decision he laid the ink well and pen back down on the stone ground and ripped off his jacket and vest, tossing them carelessly on the ground next to them. He could waste a jacket. It wasn't even one of his favorites. If it were, no way would he leave it there to perish so poorly. His cravat was untied and off with an elegant flick of his wrist, and he laid it on the pile too. Closed his eyes and smiled in pleasure at the water's fresh, pure touch.

Drip. Drip drip. Drip drip drip drip drip - the hisses and splats of steady rain on the ground rose up all around and on him. Thick, fat drops fell fast and hard on his hair, and within seconds the tops of his shoulders and head were drenched. He spun around, letting the lukewarm water flick off of his face in all different directions, flying from his ponytail to join their fallen brethren. He fluffed and shook his hair out like a dog, letting the water soak the rest of his clothes, refreshing him. Cleansing him. Clinging to his mildly feverish skin, his aching back, his chest, his socks and pants in comfortable relief.

The lightning flashed behind his eyelids, and almost immediately after the thunder cracked all around him. It shook the ground hard, shook his serenity into momentary fear, but he forced himself to stay calm, and stay out there. Desperate to NOT THINK. Desperate for a chance to senselessly enjoy something beautiful. Desperate for a meaningful rest, a mental recharge. He sat down right where he was on the wet stone, rolled back until he was on his back, threw his arms out to the sides and sprawled there, shifting until he was comfortable.

He lay there, in the warm rain. At momentary peace with self and with nature. He knew it couldn't last. But he didn't care.

He couldn't relax, though. Not with the fat, harsh rain slamming into his face, his eyelids, interrupting his lack of concentration. What was the word Japan used? Zen or something? France tried shielding his face with his arms, but within moments he realized that was dumb; he was too lazy to stay like that since his arms would get tired, and he couldn't sleep like that anyway. He solved his dilemma by flipping over and crossing his arms, resting his cheek on his folded hands. There. Much more comfortable.

He breathed, in and out, in and out, forced it deeper and deeper in his lungs, drawing his consciousness deeper and deeper with each exhale. He didn't even notice Sleep creeping up behind him.

 

The first thing he did when his eyes opened was shiver. Before much could register he stretched his cold, stiff limbs and rolled to his feet, snatching up his ruined jacket and vest. He checked the pocket for the letter and sure enough, it was also destroyed. The parchment was soaked, falling apart in his pocket, and the ink bled, staining a huge blotch on the color. Oh well. He'd have to write another one.

He ran inside as fast as he could, desperate to dry off and warm up.

 

**_June 13, 1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, Servant's Quarters_ **

_'¡Dios mío, Francia!_

_You know, if there's one thing I learned in my long life as both a world power and European power, it's forgiveness. I have done things I am not proud of in my life. All of the older Nations have. Anyone who says otherwise is lying to you, and to themselves. But the past is the past, and for Nations, if we don't learn to forgive each other we're going to hold a long, miserable grudge for a long, long time. And that poisonous mindset and lifestyle is no way to live. It'll prevent the happiness we need to enjoy the good parts of our hard lives._

_I just don't think I can forgive you for this, though, Francia. For how you treated Prussia and me._

_You ignoring us is inexcusable. You not letting us help you was childish and immature, and hurtful, and it may take me and Prussia a long time to get over it. . ._

_I'm completely joking with you! I missed you SO MUCH!_

_¡Hola, hola, hola! I'm so happy to finally hear from you again after decades, mi amigo! You have no idea how happy your letter made me. I was actually on a ship at the time helping unload some cargo when the courier brought it to me and I just jumped all over the deck when I read it I couldn't stop smiling like an idiot. I ran straight back to the palace and scared Romano because I was squealing like a little girl and he thought I was dying._

_You know you don't have to apologize to me. I mean, if you really want to, I won't stop you. Hahaha! We're best amigos, no? The trio's not done yet, right? I'm the booty, you're the beauty, and Prussia's the brute-y._

_Don't tell anyone I said that. Ever._

_I think you just got lost somewhere in the chaos and the pain. Which is okay! But where you went wrong is in thinking I - or we - couldn't relate to your pain, and couldn't help you. We've all had horrible bosses in our lifetimes. We all know what it does to us and how it hurts. Okay? I just want to make sure you know that you can talk to me or Prussia about anything._

_I'd love to come and see you, as soon as possible! Let's make sure we plan it early enough ahead that both me and Prussia can come. I'll put in a request for the first week of September. Sí, mi amigo?_

_If you still feel bad, don't. Just let it go. I already have. Just know for the future that we're here for you._

_Antonio Fernandez Carriedo; El Reino de España'_

The kitchens.

France could think of maybe three times he'd ever been to the kitchens, and every time he wasn't sure he stayed more than a few minutes.

Not today. Today he was a man on a mission. An extremely important, France-morale-boosting mission that would increase his mood about ten fold.

He wanted desperately to bake some bread. The essence French life. Of his life. The shortage in Paris mixed with the overabundance at Versailles made his stomach sick for it and his heart ache for it. He wanted to squeeze the moist, firm dough in his hands and watch it ooze out between his fingers. He wanted flour caked on his hands. He wanted his wrists and forearms to ache with the rough labor of kneading. And he wanted to ignore Louis for a while, so really his reasons were two-fold.

It took him forever to find the kitchen, to his frustration. France thought that the lack of exterior glitz and glamour in this section of the palace would make the servants' quarters easier to navigate, but he was horribly mistaken. Including their quarters there were 700 rooms in the entire structure, and they curled in on each other and weaved left and right just as confusingly as the floors above. By sheer luck he found the linen storage rooms and an elderly maidservant who pointed him in the right direction after 20 minutes of aimless wandering (and the occasional pause to adjust his shirt over his uncomfortably tight bandages. They felt like they were lopsided, resting higher and pushing up under his shoulder blades on his right side and squeezing over his shoulder blades on the left side. He felt disproportionate and slanted. And dirty.) He was supposed to look for a maidservant named Gwen. But he'd be lucky if he found her by breakfast tomorrow.

He already lost count of the doors he was supposed to pass, but he assumed he was getting closer. He could feel the ovens' heats, hotter and hotter. He started randomly checking as he came across them, left and right. Cabinets upon cabinets of extra cooking supplies, bowls, grains, extra cutlery, towels and napkins, faced him over and over again, and he tried as hard as he could to not let it wear away at his patience and make him quit in frustration all together. Finally, as he ripped open the last one with a growl of rage, he came face to face with a short maid leaving the kitchens. Beautiful green eyes, long brown hair clasped in a bun, young face, wide nose and eyes. Beautiful. He jumped and took a step back but she fared much worse. Gasping and jumping in alarm, she spat out an instinctual, " _Merde!_ " and struggled to juggle all the trays in her hand. France smoothly reached out and steadied them in her arms. Like flipping a switch, the fact that he was staring at a beautiful woman registered. He confidently wore his best charm and poise, and she looked up into his face, blinking in surprise.

She was bad at concealing her emotions. Out of embarrassment and shock at his (clearly beautiful) face, she immediately turned beet red, curtsying as low as she could with all the junk in her hands. "S-steamy-sexy-I MEAN-SORRY! Sorry, sorry, sorry, Monsieur," she stammered, trying to hurry past him as quickly as she could.

"Hold on, hold on," France said, sliding into her path. He smiled as sweetly as he could, flashed his teeth, softened his piercing blue eyes. " _You think I'm sexy?_ " he asked with his eyes. He took a second to formally bow to her and asked with his mouth, "Are you Gwen?"

She raised her eyes at her name, then shot them back to the floor, refusing to look at him. "Oui. And I have some work to do right now, so . . ."

"My name is Francis Bonnefoy. I was told you're the . . . beautiful woman to see around here if a man wants to bake some bread."

She smiled instinctually, raising her beautiful green eyes to his face and looking him up and down. "I know that name. Aren't you the King's advisor?" she asked, skeptically perusing his common appearance - his wrinkled, thin shirt that showed his bandages, his plain beige trousers. Suddenly her demeanor changed. She snorted in disbelief and pushed past him, making him chase after her. "You wanna bake some bread? A nobleman? Why?"

He followed her to one of the storage cabinets he yelled at earlier. She struggled to reach the shelf for the trays so France eased them from her. "Here, let me," he said, reaching the top shelf on his tiptoes. "I just wanted to. And, of course," he added, leaning against the wall next to her. "I knew it would allow me to spend time with you, _belle_." He smiled what he knew was a dazzling smile, smothering her, blinding her with his attractive allure.

She considered his charisma with a flick of the hair falling out of her bun and an interested eyebrow raise. France's spirits lifted, thinking she would concede immediately in his handsome wake. To his surprise she shook her head. " _Désolée_ , Monsieur, but I already soaked the flour and leavening in the water, and-"

France's bravado shattered, an audible crack in his ears. Every conscious effort he used to captivate her evaporated and his true desperation rang pathetically through. "I can still mix and knead the fresh dough! Oh, come on, please?" he whimpered, clasping his hands. She rolled her eyes and turned away from him, and he followed her back into the kitchens. "I've been looking forward to this all morning! I won't get in your way or slow you down - I already know how to make it so you don't have to show me anything! I promise I won't make you get behind in your routine. Please, Gwen?" She paused and he watched her shoulders heave as she sighed deeply. He gently grabbed her elbow and spun her around to face him. "Please?" he softly pined again. He leaned down and peered into her face, blinking as much of his pathetic, heartbreaking, and miserable plea into his eyes as possible. And, he admit, a bit of his National influence. If bread meant as much as it did to the average Frenchman, imagine how much he could make it visibly matter to the epitome of the word 'French'.

"O-okay, okay," she submitted, blinking in the odd, removed wake of National auras. "Fine, but . . . Just wash your hands first," she said, sliding the bowl over to him. He poured himself some fresh water and scrubbed his hands profusely, proving to her that he was doing it right. He even scrubbed between each finger.

"Okay?" he asked after he dried them, holding them out to her and turning them over, palms up. She nodded her approval but France offered his hand again, and she looked up at him questioningly. "Now you have to let me check yours!" he teased, grabbing them from the counter top. He turned them all around, checked every delicate angle, traced every contour and callous, then held hers up and tried to lace his fingers between hers. At first, she ripped her hand away, and France backed off as well. "Looks good to me," he murmured, careful to not make it awkward.

Instead, he smiled at her, but she didn't react.

Alright, he decided, he teased her enough anyway. For now. France pulled away and quickly got to work. He scanned the ingredients she already laid out. "Is this the water we're using?" he asked, peering into the pitcher. She nodded. "What kind?"

"Well water, Monsieur." Eh, he liked rain water better. He thought it gave the bread better flavor, but oh well. He dipped a finger in it to make sure it wasn't too hot since it was summer, and to his delight it was the right, lukewarm temperature. He moved on. Milk, probably bought. Again, fresh from the cow and unhanded was France's personal choice, but he was a harsh bread critic. The cream congealed smoothly on the top from sitting, which meant it was untainted. Two eggs, bushels of white salt, probably from Normandy. If the salt was from the deposits it was grey. White salt was beach salt. Butter. If he had to guess, imported from the Netherlands or Denmark. Some old dough, probably from breakfast, and yeast. Powdered. "You let the yeast sit for a while, right? To ferment it?"

"Oui."

"Bien." And the last, and most important thing, most troublesome thing, the reason boulangeries were raided, the reason he was shot in the leg and in the back of the head in Paris, the flour. He experimentally pinched a bit and rubbed it gently between his fingers, nodding his approval at the coarseness of the grain. "Okay! Let's get started!"

He grabbed an empty bowl and confidently slapped it down in front of him. She handed him the pitcher of water and bucket of milk, and he poured as much water as he felt should be there in the bowl. "Measure out a pint of milk for me," he told her, and she filled a cup, handing it out to him. He could tell she was a professional at this; her measurements were almost exactly right despite being estimated. He poured it in with his water and moved to mix the yeast mixture in next, and pinched some of the salt, sprinkling three pinches with a flourish before starting to mix it up. "Break me off some butter," he ordered, "but not too much. We don't want it to turn bitter."

"I know what I'm doing," she snapped, but from the sound it was more playful than annoyed. He chanced a glance out of the corner of his eye at her, small smile stretching across his face. They met eyes and he fully glanced into her face, and they didn't break eye contact, even as she hand-broke the butter on a small plate for him. She handed it over and after he dumped it into his mixture he grabbed her hands and wiped as much butter off of her hands as he could. She giggled and rolled her eyes but didn't pull away, even as he grabbed a towel and cleaned off her hands. He tried to hold them again, eventually succeeding in lacing his fingers in hers, gingerly stroking the backs of her hands with his thumbs. She didn't try to pull away.

"I promise, I'm not toxic," he joked. "I won't kill you."

"That's what Brutus said to Julius Caesar," she quipped back.

France laughed, letting her hands go. "That's also what Odysseus told Penelope, and they lived a very happy life together. Eventually."

She chuckled dryly. "Are you implying that you'd like to marry me, Monsieur?"

France let her hand go. "Oh, well, geez, that's all very sudden, but if you insist . . . " Her shoulders slumped, she leveled a dead-eyed look at him before playfully pushing his shoulder. He laughed, winking back at her. He turned his attention back to his forming dough, and scanned the counter for the eggs. "Want to mix this?" he asked her, gesturing to it with a cock of his head. "I have to beat the eggs." She nodded and took over, and he cracked two eggs into a separate bowl. "Where's the whisk?" he asked her, opening and searching through some drawers.

"Over there," she told him, pointing to the other end of the kitchen. "In the tall cabinet, second shelf. There should be a whole bunch in there."

He retrieved one of the better looking ones. "So, Gwen, how long have you worked at Versailles?"

"Umm," she hummed, counting in her head. "Not very long, maybe a few years? My mother worked here before she died, and I used her connections." France took the whisk and loudly whirled it around and around the bowl, rolling his wrists to keep it the same thick, yolk consistency. "You?"

"Years as well," he said. The scraping sound against the bowl was so nostalgic to him. He felt like he was returning home, like he was returning to Paris again for another fresh start. Only it was considerably lighter, and less formidable than the last time. He was there to make happy memories instead of live in fear. 

Ugh, how pathetic he sounded. He'd never voice that out loud, as true and heart warming as it was to him. Everybody would laugh at him.

"And what's your story?" she asked.

"My story?"

"Yes," she said, pausing in her mixing to glance up at him. "I gave you a bit of information about me. Now it's your turn."

"My story . . . is . . . I don't know. No one has asked me that before. Not like that. My story is . . . long, it's boring, and it's . . . complicated."

"Oh, really?" she deadpanned. "It's 'complicated'? Come on, I refuse to accept that! Tell me something about you. _One_ thing."

"The position of King's advisor has been a Bonnefoy's job for generations."

"So it's a lineage position," she said, and he nodded. He wasn't exactly lying. "And what is Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy passionate about?"

It was a simple question. It should have been, anyway. But when he thought of everything in his life, none of them sparked his interest enough to commit. Politics? Politics could be fun, when things were going smoothly. Like Louis XIV. Louis XIV was fun. But now? Absolutely not, not with Louis XVI. War? No, war _hurt_. Religion, or theology? Not after the 1100s. He liked learning, but couldn't concentrate on it lately with the other things going on in his life. "History . . . Love."

"Love! How sweet!" Her eyes flicked up to his, and she made strong eye contact through her lashes. The tone of her voice changed when she said, "I love love, too."

Was that a pass? An innuendo? He would be more than happy to oblige, but for a moment he could only regard her with a bit of surprise. He wasn't expecting it at all - _he_ was supposed to be the seductive one. Either way, the way she said that instantly turned him on. Only one way to see what her intentions were. "Do you?" he asked. "But what's your _favorite_?" he pressed. "Because, you know, there's friendship love, brotherly love . . . romantic love. I've had a lot of practice in all of them but I have to say, romantic love is my favorite. There's nothing like the feeling of total serenity that comes after a night with your partner."

The heat rose to her face, and her cheeks lit up red. "I like ro- romantic love, too," she stammered.

Figuring she was the kind of confident woman who would appreciate it anyhow, France took the bowl over to her and made a bold first move, flattening himself to her back, reaching around her over her shoulders and dumping the eggs into the bowl. She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow, and he rested his chin on her shoulder, staring deeply, suggestively into her eyes. "Do you like this as well?"

" . . . Yes."

He knew he had her now. "You are very beautiful," he affirmed. "Almost . . . " he put his lips on the nape of her neck and ghosted them up to her ear. " . . . Angelic."

She shuddered violently beneath his touch. "Merci," she said softly, lamely. He could sense she was comfortable underneath him, and he read the scene. His hands found their way up her arms as she mixed.

"Stunning," he breathed. Caressed her shoulders and rolled down her torso. "Enchanting, tantalizing, mesmerizing, radiant, ravishing, divine." Smoothed down her wide dress to find her curves. They found their way to her hips and just began their daring journey towards her behind, but she quickly spun around and flicked a tiny bit of flour in his face, peppering his skin. He let out a sheepish grin and wiped it away with a section of her apron.

"In a moment," she chuckled, ruining the moment despite the intense desire he could see in her cheeks and eyes, in her body language, the way she leaned into his touch. "It's starting to cling. Add the flour and leaven and knead it a bit, and we'll let it sit." Finally, someone who knew how to flirt! The art of give-and-take, push-and-pull. She knew how to use her body and her words. She was perfect.

He raised his eyebrow, trying to convey, "Later," and blew an affectionate, promising kiss at her.

France took over the mixing, shooing her to the side. He checked the consistency of the mixture, deciding it needed to be thicker. He pointed to the flour, all business once again. "Measure out a half chopine of extra flour for me. This needs to be more firm."

As she scooped it from the bowl she barked out a quick laugh. "What?" he asked, glaring hard at her. "Are you thinking dirty thoughts?" he concluded when he realized he just said the words 'more firm.'

"No . . . " she chirped, handing it over to him. He poured a small amount in and mixed until it was too firm for a bowl. He scooped it out and slapped it down onto the counter, peppering some flour on the counter to keep it from sticking. "Wash your hands again," she ordered him, sliding the bowl over to him again.

"I know!" he said, rolling his eyes. He scrubbed his hands again thoroughly. "You act like I've never baked bread before in my life! Oh, _mon Dieu_ , stop pestering me!" He made a grand show of showing her his newly clean hands again and gestured to his dough. "Can I knead the dough now?" He went to start folding it, but she stopped him again.

"Wait! You need to roll up your sleeves!"

"Oh, now you're just messing with me-"

"I am not!" she scoffed. She made it her turn to trace her hands along his arms sensually, just as hungry for the extra contact as he was, and a jolt of ecstasy shot through him at her touch. He fought the intense desire, the burning temptation to leave the bread to suffer and focus on her, submit to her touch. She stopped to rub her finger back and forth over a small scar he had on his forearm, and as she went further and further up his arm, pushing his sleeves up, she curiously rubbed each raised pink mark she found. She looked questioningly into France's face and he shrugged, unwilling to delve deep into his past lest he ruin this for himself.

She quickly rolled his sleeves up past his elbows for him. "Merci," he muttered, leaning in and pressing a peck to the tip of her nose, still fighting the animalistic lust to bend her over the table. Not too much, France. "Just a peek," he meant to say to himself, but his hot breath trickled out of his mouth and spoke the words out loud. He put a hand on her cheek thumb moving almost of its own volition to rub under her eye, slide to her nose, between her eyes, up and around her eyebrow, down the side of her face, trace her jawline to her chin. As he gently cupped it she tilted her head back, exposing her neck to him, inviting him, and he hungrily ran his hands down as far as he thought he should, too scared to spoil the moment with over-assumptions and over-indulgence. She grabbed his hand and led it for him, across her collar bones, closer and closer to her chest.

He decided to tease her, to take his turn in their push-and-pull, retreating and starting to work the dough, gathering it into a pile. It was still sticky, and fell apart as he tried to ball it up, so he scooped and flattened and scooped and flattened until it clung to itself.

"I hope you know how to punch it!" she teased breathlessly, crossing her arms.

He sneered, pressing the heels of his hands forcefully into the dough. "Puh-lease! I'm French, of course I know how!"

France knew how, but he was out of practice. Almost immediately his back started aching, radiating sorely into his shoulders. His forearms started to burn and his wrists twinged with each press of the dough after three minutes. He winced but resolved to fight through it, since easing up would threaten the quality of the dough. Plus, he wanted to look tough for this beautiful lady. He snuck a peek at her, but she was staring at him and she caught it. "What, tiring out? You've worked up a sweat!" she asked him, walking over. She bumped him aside with her hip and gloated, "Here. Let me take over. You're soft, nobleman hands couldn't handle the rough work, hm?"

"No, it's not that," he flirted. "I was just distracted by a fine-looking mademoiselle!"

She started kneading where he left off, folding and punching to spring the dough until it smoothed out, and he watched her whole body - arms, legs, shoulders, back - clench lithely, coiling and uncoiling erotically to work the dough. "I, um . . . I think we can pick up where we left off," he muttered, butterflies rising in his stomach and fluttering in his chest, making his heart race and breath hitch. He jaunted forward on shaky knees and pressed up against her again, letting her move him to her rhythm, writhing under him, her tiny form surprisingly strong and firm. He wrapped his arms around her waist and literally felt her abs contract, imagining her naked body doing the same under his own. He closed his eyes in rapture for a moment before taking a deep, controlling breath and kneading with her. Folding the dough over both of their hands, maintaining as much contact as he could. Pressing delicate kisses to the back of her neck, the tops of her shoulders, nipping at any exposed skin. Hot to the touch, silky smooth. Nibbling her earlobes. So close to her, he could feel her legs shake as his shook; he could feel her thighs clench together and her head toss back, eyes closing in ecstasy. He lost track of how long they had been kneading after a few moments, so he was lucky when she finally wiggled underneath him. He released his grip.

"Ok. It can sit now," she said, turning towards him. "We have two hours." She closed her eyes and leaned in and he pressed his lips to hers violently, his plump, luscious bottom lip catching on her cracked, roughly chapped top lip. He pulled her close, pressed her ample chest to his own, ran his hands up and down her back. Her nose pressed uncomfortably into his cheek and he pulled away to tilt his head the other way and reset with a wet smack. He ran his hands along the top of her head to the back, tangling his fingers messily in her curls and she did the same to his soft blond hair. Mussing, pulling, kissing passionately, his tongue parted her lips and tracked the contour of the teeth in her mouth, hers lolling and colliding sloppily, messily, warmly, with his. She hissed out a breath that squeaked into a sigh. She had been chewing on peppermint leaves, he noted pleasantly. Her breath was cool and had a tingling, fiery bite to it as it entered his own lungs from hers. He pulled her closer, their legs locked, their chests touched, and he could feel her heart beating fast and loud in excitement, as fast as his as her chest skimmed tantalizingly against his chest.

" _Let's go somewhere else_ ," he breathed. She continued to press kisses to his neck and jaw line, even biting him as he set the dough aside and draped a towel over it. He let out a squeak of pain, whispering, " _We just made that bread. Let's not defile it._ " She nodded and let him take her hand and lead her from the room.

 

 ** _June 17, 1787_**  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_**  
**_France's Bedchamber_**

  
_'You git,_

_You think that after one letter I'm just going to forgive you? You're mad! You're simple! You frog! I heard nothing- NOTHING!- and suddenly you show back up like everything's normal? Damn you, Francis Bonnefoy; damn you, France!_

_And then you write that childish, immature poem about me? You don't even try to address the issues at hand? You don't even try to apologize? You hurt me deeply, France. You scared me, and if I'm going to all this trouble to even admit that then you're going to say you're sorry!_

I swear to you I will not speak to you again until you do! Do you understand me, France?

_Arthur Kirkland; The Kingdom of Britain_

 

Rather than make him feel bad about himself as it would have a month ago, the letter just pissed France off. He was in no mood to coddle Britain and cater to his fragile feelings when he was finally so focused on his own. When he was finally happy. He wrote his own candid, sordid response.

  
_'Britain,_

_I still haven't received a genuine apology for 30 May, 1431._

_You're going to have to swallow - choke down - choke ON - your pride and apologize to me first. Then maybe I'll consider us (severely lopsidedly) even._

_Casse-toi._

_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

 

  
_'Frankreich,_

_HAHAHAHAHA! I wish I could've seen your face when you read the first half of Spain's letter! Mein Gott, I bet it was rich! Of course he told me the prank he was gonna play! What, did you pee your trousers? I'll bet you even cried a little!_

_He was content to just accept your apology and forgive you. What a nice friend! But I'm not going to let you off that easily! Now that I think about it, I'd really appreciate that artist you mentioned. I'd love to hang a portrait in my King's house of you begging on your knees for forgiveness before me! I'll expect one ready for when me and Spain come over the first week of September._

_That's another thing: we agreed on a time that works for both of us, and that's the week. So we're coming over whether you want us there or not, and Louis has to entertain! Especially since this is 'official National business', and an 'extremely immediate problem' we will be discussing._

_At least, that's what we're gonna tell Louis if he asks questions. Geez, I hope he won't. He's not gonna be a bother, is he? He strikes me as the kind of person who's just a bother, you know? Ugh, I can already feel his bother seeping into my skin. It's annoying!_

_One more thing: You maybe, sort of, kind of, almost owe Austria an apology on my behalf. Let's just say when he returned from his visit with you he was taking a really really long time to lay out the details and I grew a little impatient. Sorry. You should take care of that._

_I can't wait to see you, though! We're gonna have FUN!_

_Gilbert Beilschmidt; Das Königreich Preußen'_

 

He rolled off of Gwen and sprawled out, cooling off above the covers that they managed to kick off anyway. She turned towards him, still panting, and inched forward until she was up against his bare, warm chest, blearily smiling up at him. He threw his arm over to absently stroke her arm with his thumb.

"Mmmm," she rumbled, closing her eyes.

He was tired too. He gathered the sheets to evenly cover the two of them again, then leaned down and kissed the top of her brown hair. Glad to have her there to wake him up from the inevitable nightmare.

 

 ** _June 29, 1787_**  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_**  
**_Private Cabinet_**

_"Be at my cabinet by 10:00. You are meeting Brienne. Against your recent wont of walking around the palace while wearing as little clothes as possible, please look decent. - Louis"_

The only deviation from that usual morning routine was that he was getting dressed for Brienne, not just for himself. Today was the day. Louis finally stopped twiddling his thumbs and ordered France to do something.

France's body couldn't decide what to feel, physically or mentally. Mentally he was half-ecstatic. Delighted with Louis for still wanting to include him despite their fight and what Louis said about France's shallowness. France had another chance to help himself consensually before he took matters into his own hands as much as he could. On the other hand, Louis scoffed, he chided, he grew angry when France didn't approve of Brienne, and now he wanted France's input again on the man's ideas? After he accused France of being too close-minded to even listen? It was so ridiculously annoying and laughable France knew he was going to have to try and contain it while he talked to them.

Physically, he was flip-flopping between stress - dread, anxiety - and every heightened joy on the spectrum of excitement. The stress balled in his stomach, thick and black. It wormed inside of itself like it was alive, occasionally rising up into his chest, blocking his heart and blood and lungs, tensing him up, panicking him like he panicked in his dreams. Sometimes it burst inside of him, making his knees shake and his head swim. He initially took it as a National sign that it wasn't going to go well, but as it drew closer and closer something changed inside of him. A realization, or something. Austria's sentiment, maybe, seizing control. Forcing him to realize that this was for the best. The next second, an instant after recovering from the effects of the pressure, he would pick back up. His heart would rise up in his chest, up into his cheeks before he could stop it until he was smiling like an idiot. This was his opportunity to help France grow like Austria said. It felt like a strong, unburdened breath of fresh, clean air. Another clean slate, the cleanest it had been since he went to Paris for the first year, since he returned to Versailles. He had another chance. Not a month ago he was ready to roll over and die right there. He thought he was finished, that he would just have to watch Louis run France so deep into the ground he would already be six feet under. Not yet.

He was excited for once, actually excited for this meeting, for another chance to do what Calonne could not - and from an entirely different angle! Maybe Brienne would have some new ideas France himself hadn't even thought of. France surfed his mental database and the Versailles staff's gossip circle and found that Étienne Charles de Loménie de Brienne used to be a member of the clergy. Born in Paris, he was a doctor of theology and even traveled to Rome to become a Bishop. Which was good. Having an agent of the upper class willing to help the lower classes was an excellent step in the right direction for everyone's perspectives. Including Louis', if he chose to be cooperative and open-minded.

France was in a wonderful mood. A confident mood. That entire month to himself was the best decision he ever made for himself in his entire National life. Despite the occasional bout of pain in his back he looked good, he felt good. He wore his new attitude like a proud piece of jewelry. He only had one problem with it though: he couldn't decide if it was genuine or if it was all talk, just a frenzy he talked himself into but didn't necessarily believe or support. Whether or not the majority of it was a façade, a false persona, as long as he wore it proudly he was ready to face Louis and Brienne. No matter what they threw at him. He would try and handle it. He would try to worm his way in, use his influence as much as he could.

He needed an outfit to match his good mood, so despite the butler laying out a plain columbia blue jacket and waistcoat, France scoured his wardrobe again for something much more fancy, much more elegant. He opted for a pristine pine green coat with a beautifully patterned leaf green lace trim. About an inch and a half thick, it trimmed the front of the jacket and the pockets, as well as the end of the sleeves with flowers and roses in the lace. He went for a black waistcoat (because hey, black flatters everyone, right?) and socks, with bright green pants and cravat, layering the greens over the deep black.

France checked himself in the mirror. Green wasn't really his color. His blond hair and blue eyes contradicted it quite a bit, but he made the outfit work with his layering so he left it on. He parted and brushed his hair, making sure it didn't cling to his face or clothes and left.

As he consciously strutted down the corridors, bouncing his step and swishing his hips, chin up, he closely inspected the decorated walls, the gilded trim on everything - the ornate panels covering the walls, the decorative art, the glass, the vases and artifacts on the pedestals, the flowers, the frames around the paintings on the ceiling. These were the same hallways that became the setting of his dream. It was hard to think of them as the same shredded and gutted corridors. And yet the more he looked, the more he drew parallels. This version started to look more and more like the haunted one, France realized. The fake one. Too ridiculously pristine. Too false. Ironically fabricated, forever trapped behind a gilded lens. The two versions weren't comparable in the slightest, and yet they were exactly the same. This version had its own dirt, but it was covered by years of denial. Everything at Versailles was hiding behind a delusion of perpetual grandeur. He imagined the glittering powder getting thicker and thicker as he drew closer to Louis' chambers. France's dream version was the actual version, without any falsifications. The actual version was swallowed up, falling apart, morals sunken lower than the Parisian catacombs.

"Ugh, let it go, France," he told himself. "You're just ruining your own good mood. You have a job to do."

He smoothed out his outfit and finger-combed his hair, making sure everything was in order before he knocked. France's chest swelled with pleasant anticipation and he let himself in, flashing a brilliant smile and bowing deeply as soon as he saw Louis.

" _Mon Roi_ ," he purred.

"Good morning, France." His eyes scanned France up and down, and Louis nodded his approval. "I see your fashion sense is as impeccable as ever."

" _Merci, je sais_!" he said confidently, verging on arrogantly. Ah, well. He looked good. Nobody had to tell him he looked good. He knew.

"It's wonderful to see you in such a good mood for once."

"I am excited to meet Brienne!" He sashayed over to him and when the two met, they bowed deeply to each other. As France drew himself to full height, he noticed Brienne didn't shrink back at all. Rather, he smiled and folded his hands amiably behind his back.

"Oui, as I am excited to meet our Nation, in the flesh."

France looked him over, sizing him up right in front of him, knowing he was being rude but wanting to assert his presence. He had the look of a clergyman about him: a long, slender face and nose underneath a wide forehead. His lips were small but thick, and his close-set eyes were extremely big and wide, giving him a perpetual look of alarm.

"Monsieur France-?"

"I hope you'll forgive me for being frank, but I am in too much pain for this to go any other way than exactly how I want it to. I have," he started, holding up his thumb and middle finger and putting about a centimeter of space between them, "about this much patience left. That's it. This is all you get before I have you out of here faster than you came-"

"France!" Louis began incredulously.

"Oh, stop it! I am in pain and sick. France is, obviously, in pain and sick. Marie brought you in, you and nobody else, to work with the country incarnate to try and fix it. So I need a few things from you, right from the start. One: TRUST ME! Two: Be open to changes I want to make to anything laid out in your financial plans, and I will be open to new ideas from you. Three: Don't be afraid to bring anything to my attention that you think of. With a little bit of debate, a half-hearted idea can be turned into a definite plan of action. Are we clear? France is teetering on the precipice of-" No matter how bad things were he still couldn't bring himself to commit to the word 'revolution.' "I have no time for one-man armies, or heroes. Listen to me, listen to Louis - unless we disagree, then listen to me-"

"France!"

"And France could be healing in a year or two. Are we understood?"

" . . . U-uuuuuh, oui. Oui, we are clear."

"Perfect! Now, tell me everything you have in mind. I'm all ears."

"Okay! Um, starting with the tax burden, Monsieur Calonne's first order of business was to impose a land tax on the upper class and clergy-"

"Which you ardently opposed," France reminded him. "I'm not sure why, if I am being honest. I thought that was a very good idea. The logic was sound, and I had a feeling it would have balanced the lopsidedness of the crown's income."

"I believed it to be sound as well, but where I saw the flaw was in the focus on the crown's income rather than the peoples'. The crown should be our second priority if we are to avoid social disaster. We need to do something that directly helps the people and their pockets first. Otherwise, if they don't see anything helping, they won't believe anything is helping. Even an illusion of financial and social improvement will work wonders, though I pray we do something to genuinely assist."

"That makes sense. What do you propose then?"

"I suggest improved wages, less restrictions on internal trade and higher restrictions on foreign trade. The boost in population over the last century has expanded France's economy. Let's cater to that and internalize. I had a good friend of mine - Jacques Necker -"

"I'm familiar with the name," France said.

Brienne nodded. "I had Necker run statistics for me, and a mere two percent increase in pay for those employed by nobles or bourgeoisie would leave the upper class still with enough money for nearly a ten percent increase in tax deductions."

"So I say we adopt Calonne's overhauls and reforms then, including the land tax," asserted France. "I'd have to reread his proposal to see the exact numbers he conjured up for the increases, but if they can withstand that substantial of an enlargement, I say we do it. We can kill two birds with one stone if we accompany a wage increase with tax reform."

"That makes sense," Louis said, already dabbing a pen in the ink well to record it. "'Increased wages; tax reforms'" he wrote, speaking it as he penned it. "What else?"

"More civil liberties - rights of assembly, press, speech."

"Why?" Louis demanded. "Won't that just encourage their unrest?"

France shook his head. "Think about all your social powers as King, Louis. You can seize property on an individual level if you see fit. You can control the very expression of their thoughts, with your censorship of the press - books, newspapers, writings, speeches. You can muzzle them completely if you want. You can imprison them with a mere order without trial, and for as long as you want. Giving them a little more leeway and freedom with those would probably improve their opinion of you instantly. Would it spark unrest? I don't believe so," France told him. "Though they'll be allowed to publicly voice their opinions they'll lack the power to actually do anything about it."

"That's not what I remember you telling Austria," Louis argued. "Shot, what, twice, was it?" France sighed, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. He didn't realize his hand slowly crept to the gunshot wound's scar.

"They were in a bad place. Starving. And you were stagnate at the time. They didn't see an end. I agree with Brienne, that even the smallest action will create positive ripples across France. Do you know where I see us encountering a problem? Parliament. We'd be putting much of our faith in their opinions of the general public. And I can tell you they aren't good."

" _Sa Majesté_ cannot exercise power over them?" Brienne put in.

"He values their opinion." France tried to hide the malice he naturally started to put in his tone. Tried. Probably failed. "Though I wish he wouldn't. He'll want to bring it up to them, right, Louis?" He nodded. "I'm warning you, _Majesté_ , as soon as we publicize this, the moment the people see what they may be free to do . . . if Parliament disapproves, there will be chaos. They will exercise those rights anyway, if they aren't exercising them already, but there will be violence rather than peace. America proved too much to them with his Revolution and new democracy for them to admit defeat against legislation again. Our goal is to convince Parliament of what you just told me, Brienne - the importance of people first, crown later. What may seem superficial could make all the difference. They need to know that."

"And what if Parliament disagrees?" Louis, ever the one to consider all possibilities, offered.

Brienne and France made eye contact, each brainstorming what may (which France thought would) become the biggest obstacle. "Then . . . " France began, "I use my National identity. If we have exhausted our hand and our chips, I become the trump card."

"That's a very large risk, France. What if they don't buy it?" Louis asked. "Disbelief is stronger than reason in most situations." As if France didn't know that - and by Louis' own hand.

"Even with _Votre Majesté_ 's support?"

France shrugged. Noncommittal, but with its own touch of cynicism. He wanted to say yes, but couldn't dedicate his thought processes to the negative idea that they would laugh him from the room no matter what.

"Let's assume the worst case scenario," Brienne reckoned. "They don't believe you. Are you willing to risk your reputation? They very well may never take you seriously again, for as long as they claim their positions."

" _Je sais_ ," France mumbled. "I know." He started second-guessing his plan to tell them, embarrassed for thinking it would be worth a shot in the first place. There were more tangible risks than reward, but there were more psychological rewards than risks. They were at an impasse in his heart.

"But! I have a solution!"

"You do?"

"Oui! We give the people the chance to pass it themselves. During the Assembly there was mention of the States-General - do you remember? If these edicts fail at Parliament I suggest we call the _États-Généraux_ , and present the exact same thing to them. Like you said, the new freedoms will appeal to them, as will their improved stations."

"We'd have to rid ourselves of Parliament completely before the _États-Généraux_ ever convenes," France said, strategically choosing the words 'rid ourselves'. Like they were a burden in need of removing. Old chamberpots in need of emptying. Ok, ew. He shouldn't have went that far. He looked into Brienne's eyes and could see the wheels turning as he worked through the problems.

"Hm. Rid ourselves . . . " he muttered. "Technically, we don't have to go through Parliament at all. We may not even have to play our trump card, France. Not if we bypass Parliament altogether. Not if King Louis uses a _lit_ ," Brienne said.

"A what?"

"A _lit-de-justice_. You may still tell Parliament if you wish, but a _lit-de-justice_ is a monarchial veto, if you will. Certain laws require you to go to Parliament, but a _lit_ is your ticket to over rule them if you're desperate for-"

"I'm sorry, what?" France interrupted, tapping his ear. "I'm not sure I heard right. There's a VETO option?"

"You didn't know?"

"NO! NO I DID NOT!"

"I did my research," Brienne said. "The last _lit_ was in 1718. You just forgot it was an option-"

"You're telling me I could've called a _lit_ and we could've avoided this entire FREAKING mess back in 1774?" he glared hard at Louis, and the King threw his palms up in a gesture of innocence.

"Don't give me that look, France! I didn't know either!"

"Oh, well it's not like you would've used it!" he spat. "You just did whatever Parliament wanted anyway-"

"Gentlemen," Brienne said, taking a small step to put himself slightly between them. "I'm sure there are some things you two have disagreed on in the past, but now is not the time to hash them out, in the middle of our discussion. We have very important things to cover, and God willing, we will instate all of them. If he has to, King Louis will call a _lit_ , _n'est pas_?" he asked. Good, France noted. He was making Louis commit to something. Maybe he read him as well as France did.

"Oui," he said, writing it down on the parchment. "'Bring elements to Parliament; if disagree, call _lit_ ; call States General for future legislation.' I don't like it, but . . . We're placing much faith in the people, not just Parliament."

"You're sure you still want their opinion? After everything we just told you could go wrong?" France questioned.

" . . . Oui. I am," he said, nodding.

France sighed, earning him an irritated look from Louis, but he wasn't trying to be passive-aggressive. He was trying to expel all negative pre-conceived notions, and nodded back. No, he didn't think Parliament would work. But he had to try and focus. To handle every problem as it comes with a clear head and assertive plan.

" _Ça ira_ , Louis. Trust me," Brienne assured both France and Louis. France honestly had a good feeling about the peoples' acceptance. As Brienne said, anything that was looking like it was helping would placate them. It was Louis who was worrying him. He had to play his part perfectly, not give in on anything. "What else?"

"Do you want to end it there? Let's make this our initial plan of attack. Increased wages, tax reforms, civil liberties. We can accurately gauge the fervor and strength of our opposition in Parliament and in people. Or, if this passes smoothly, we will almost immediately see improvement."

France nodded his assent, and the two turned to Louis for his approval. He gave a somewhat curt nod, but the nod was enough for France.

"Excellent!" he said, holding out his hand to Brienne. As they shook hands he smiled genuinely in the man's face. "I look forward to working with you."

"You too, France."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually listened to the sounds of rain while I wrote - despite all the rain we got in Pittsburgh I couldn't find any actual rain that corresponded with my writing schedule. I encourage you to listen to rain noises while you read if you choose to go back. Either sounds of rain or Frédéric Chopin's _Raindrop Prelude_ if you're into Romantic Era music. I hope I described it real enough without the sounds, but it adds a whole new level of immersion!
> 
> I had issues with this chapter as far as expression. France feels trapped in this repetitive cycle, and it's wearing away at his willpower. At the same time, he's also desperate for life and activity. I tried to capture that dead, dreary feeling with the addition of France's indulgences, helping him tread the dead, horribly complacent waters. If you have time to leave a comment, let me know if you think I did well! **This was ALSO my first attempt at a hotter, more sensual scene with the bread baking, so let me know about that, too!**


	10. Chapter 10

**_June 30, 1787_**  
**_Le Château de Versailles, Queen's Apartments_**  
**_Marie's Bedchamber_**

 

  
_'Canada, mon cher,_

  _Je vous écris en lettre en Française de sorte que la Bretagne ne peut pas le lire. Je ne vouloir pas il a lui de voir tout cela. Je n'ai pas rien d'important à dire; je veux lui à rends fou._

_Je comprends tu n'as pas d'un anniversaire officel, mais il était à cette époque de l'année où Sa Majesté François I envoye Jacques Cartier au Canada. 1542, oui? Ou, était-ce en 1524? Je ne peux pas m'en souvenir. Bon anniversaire reconnu, á tout cas._

_Je voudrais á dire je suis très désolé._

_Tu mérites mieux que cela, mais c'est le mielleur que je peux faire maintenant._

_J'ai plus des choses á tu dire. Trop pour une seule lettre. Il attendra. Je promets, je vais vous expliquer tout bientôt. Dès que j'atteins stabilité, equilibré._

_Je ne suis pas dans une position á demander quoi que ce soit, mais s'il vous plaît, soyez patients. Pour moi les choses iront mieux, je peux le sentir._

_J'essaierai rester en contact._

_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

 

_{Canada, my dear,_

_I am writing this letter in French so that Britain can't read it. I don't want him to see any of this. Not that I have anything important to say, I just want to drive him a little crazy._

_I know you don't have an official birthday, but it was around this time of the year when His Majesty Francis I sent Jacques Cartier to Canada. 1542, right? Or, was it in 1524? I can't remember. Happy recognized Birthday, at any rate._

_I want to say I am very sorry._

_You deserve better than that, but it's the best I can do right now._

_I have much more to tell you. Too much for one letter. So it will wait. I promise, I will explain everything as soon as I can. As soon as I reach stability, balance._

_I am in no position to ask anything of you, but please, be patient. Things are going to get better for me, I can feel it._

_I'll try to keep in touch._  
_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'}_ __  


 

_'America,_

_Bon anniversaire - Happy birthday!_

_Eleven years, now...how does it feel? It's still so hard to believe that you accomplished what you did: physically, ideologically beating the strongest empire in the world (No, I don't have a problem admitting that. Britain may have that over me but at least I'm more beautiful). You have such a bright future ahead of you - personally, nationally, and Nationally! I can't wait for the next time I see you, so I can see how much you've grown. I wish you all the best in everything you do._

_There are three purposes to this letter: The first was to wish you a happy birthday. The second was to apologize._

_I don't know if you're still mad at me or if you were even mad in the first place before we stopped talking. Either way I still owe you an apology. A different type of apology than one I sent Spain and Prussia, and a different type than the one I still owe Canada. But an apology none the less, because I hurt you. And whether you were oblivious to the malice or are simply good at brushing things off, letting things go, forgetting things to maintain your cheery attitude, I need to bring it back up to do the right thing by me and appease this guilt I have._

_Sorry if this is inarticulate or seems insincere. I've feel like I've already written out the deepest contents of my soul and borne them to so many people. I feel like I've already shared my thoughts and confessions, and expressed my apologies, free for everyone to see. But I cannot grow wary. I still owe too much to too many Nations to half-ass this one, or any other one I must do to make amends on every front possible. Just know that everything I say, I mean with all of me, with every fiber of my being._

_I am so sorry for the last letter I sent you. It was so terribly rude, so uncivil, abusive in every way, obscene, and insulting. You were only trying to help, and I rebuked you with jealousy, and a bitterness and that shouldn't have been directed at anyone but myself._

_The last reason for this letter is to thank you. You were one of the first people to suspect something was wrong with me, and you were the only one to write to me immediately. I couldn't appreciate your concern until later, when everything felt like it was crashing down around me. You're a wonderful friend, and such an inspiration to me. Everything you've done so far for yourself is amazing. Absolutely wonderful, and awe-inspiring. You should be proud of yourself, and you deserve every positive attribute that comes from forging your own path._

  _Y_ _ou changed the world, and whoever tries to step on that as I did is not worth your time._

_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France_

_P.S. I need you to do me a HUGE favor. Huge, huge, huge favor. I know I really am in no position to ask anything of you, but this could mean all the difference in my fight for normalcy. Can you expedite a copy of your Declaration to me? I need it, desperately, before the 6th of July. Please, please, please, s'il vous plaît, por favor, per favore, bitte? I'm not fooling around here, I really need it. If your offer still stands, consider it repayment for my assistance in your Revolution.'_

 

France never imagined a moment when he would urge Marie to throw a party.

It hardly seemed like a time for frivolities on the crown's part, but he honestly felt as though she needed it. Everyone needed it. The ninth would mark what would have been the late Princess Sophie-Hélène's first birthday. Then ten days after that, the nineteenth, would mark the first month after her death.

Louis took it as well as he could, or so France thought.

France admit, he was fooled; he never noticed until a few meetings after his first with Brienne that Louis' professional, collected demeanor was a front. He put on a good show of full mental investment - or maybe it was true. Maybe he actually was trying to fully pour himself into his work for the sake of forgetting his pain. Kind of a lame way to forget pain if you asked France, but nobody did, so he kept his opinion to himself. Each time France remembered what had happened, that Louis had just buried a child, a beloved baby girl, an ideological daughter of France, he picked up on the subtle traces of grief. A hollowed, gaunt look his downcast face took on; a slight wandering of the mind where France would normally have his attention; an oh-so-slight watering of his eyes when he considered the weight of his loss, considered the life she missed out on, how upset Marie was, how to console her, how he would refill the hole in his heart and rebuild himself.

Feeling insensitive as soon as he noticed, France offered to yield out of consideration, to halt all political action until the emotional and physical turmoil passed, but Louis was adamant, still pressing to continue with Brienne. He admired Louis' resolve, for once ready and willing to roll his sleeves up, but he hated that it took a circumstance like this to make it happen. He still withdrew a bit, approaching more softly, disagreeing with less fire, keeping his emotions and his tongue in check. Still succinct, still influential, but delivered properly. Wrapped up in a pretty present so it wouldn't harm him.

Marie, on the other hand, was distraught. Inconsolable for weeks.

It hurt France's heart to see the ravages of grief on both of them. He took it upon himself to be as helpful and supportive as possible, sitting with her when she cried, holding her when she looked like she needed it. Though he'd never mention it to anyone, he noticed her usual priority on beauty shoved violently to the wayside in the wake of the situation. She sometimes wouldn't dress, wouldn't even get out of bed. Even if she got out of bed she wouldn't make up her face, let anyone do her hair. The palace was quiet, everything around the King and Queen stopped. Nobody wanted to intrude in case of offending her, but everyone wanted to be helpful somehow. Mostly the courtiers showered her with gifts of condolences that went unopened. (France couldn't help but notice for a few brief seconds that when he was sick, nobody wanted to help him, but he felt like a bratty child with a ego complex when he thought about it so he pushed it away, vowing never to call upon that train of thought again.)

As he said, it hurt his heart, and he was sorry anything happened at all. But France wasn't close enough to the baby for her death to physically effect him in any way. In fact, neither he nor the French people had ever met any of the children. Not even the nine year old Princess Marie Thérèse, or the seven year old Dauphin, Prince Louis XVII. Maybe if he had been closer to the Queen, or maybe if the people had exalted Sophie's birth as heavily as the Palace did, he may have a different story to tell. But it simply wasn't the case. All he could do was maintain a painfully awkward, polite, surface level of sorrow and empathy. It didn't feel like his loss.

He supposed it wasn't all his conscious fault he couldn't bring himself to care more. To more violently mourn the death of the Princess, a baby. As an immortal being, loss, death, disaster, the coming and going of people was so commonplace. At one point, maybe, he was a bleeding heart. A harbinger of emotional relief from pain, suffering. Desperate to make everyone feel deeply loved and cared for. Desperate to make deep, fulfilling connections with anyone and everyone he encountered. He used to be so willingly and naïvely impressionable, so gullible. But not anymore. After 1431 . . . He learned in 1431 to grow deeply, profoundly attached to humans at his own emotional peril.

He turned his passions into momentary, temporary sentiments. He still craved the love - he was obsessed with love. Any kind of love. Platonic, romantic, sexual, sensual. He coveted that sort of arousing attention. Love in and of itself was not something to be wary of. If everyone in the world shared some form of love in their hearts, gave as well as received . . . how different the world would be. He simply desired nothing beyond a physical, momentary bond anymore, lest he be hurt again. The lesson Britain forced him to learn hit so hard, he would never be the same.

He shook his head of the introspection and returned his thoughts to the present, hoping Marie hadn't answered him while he was zoning. He was too afraid to ask for fear of insulting her, so he sat in silence for a few more moments. Her arms squeezed his torso tighter and he wrapped one arm around her back and the other to the back of her head, stroking her blond hair.

"We could . . . wait until September. When everything's calmed down," he offered. "I just think you and Louis need a little TLC. There's no better way to get people to fawn over you than a party. Good wine, good food, good music, dancing, canoodling, if Louis' in the mood." He said exactly what he was thinking next, "It'll get you out of your room. Get you cleaned up, dressed up. Bring about an air of normalcy around you."

"Normal?" she breathed. "I don't feel as though anything will ever be normal again."

France sighed. His heart sank as memories of the same feeling tried to burst forth. His eyes watered and he desperately tried to keep the tears contained, but his ears echoed with her screams and the flames' heat burned his face and eyes and each pop and flicker was a stab to his chest. He couldn't look away. He couldn't tear his eyes from Jeanne's even after she shut her own in pain and broke his gaze first.

He didn't speak, just held her close until he thought he could trust his voice, but as soon as he opened his mouth it cracked. "It will," he rasped. Hot tears spilled from his eyes and his breath hitched against her. "It will. Time is strange. It is both enemy and friend, both at the same time and different times. I c- . . . I can't exactly explain it." He blinked hard, forcing more of the relieving tears from his eyes. With each that fell his heart felt just a little bit lighter. "The pain is terrible, I know. I've been there. Someone close to me was ripped away tragically, too. The pain will always be there, there will always be a hole in your heart where their presence was. That's where the pain resides, waiting for you to call on it." He sniffed thickly. "T- Time becomes the foundation for you to rebuild your life. It lets you fill the hole in your heart with new experiences, new life. It helps you cover it up. You will achieve normalcy. I promise."

She looked up, eyebrows furrowing at the sight of his own tears falling with her own. "Thank you, France," she said, but he could tell in her flat tone she didn't believe him yet. Him, who'd already been hardened by centuries of loss. "September . . . isn't that when Spain and Prussia are coming over?" she asked him, changing her inflection.

He looked up, stunned. "How did you know about that?"

"The courier made a mistake. Your letter from Prussia ended up on Louis' desk. This isn't some excuse to entertain them, is it?"

"No, Marie." Spain and Prussia were just a perk at this point. "I just . . . I don't want you to be sad anymore. It doesn't become a beautiful woman such as you. The Queen of France." She smiled absently at his comments and looked up. He smiled emptily down at her and flicked a residual tear off her cheek. "Times are hard enough on their own for all of us. I know we disagree sometimes, you and I, and I know Louis and I fight constantly. I'm sure he has choice words for me when he's alone with you. But you're still my monarchs. I am still your Nation. I love you both, even if I don't often show it." Like an annoying brother and sister, anyway.

"Thank you," she said again, more strongly, peeling herself from him. "We love you too, though we often doesn't show it either. You used to scare me, you know, when I was a child."

"What?" He laughed at the hilarity of it - him, scaring anyone - before she chuckled.

"Oui, oui, you used to scare me! Remember when we first met?" she asked. Of course he did. As soon as Marie and Louis' marriage was arranged, Austria invited him to his house to meet her. France requested Louis go with him, which would have been horrendously awkward with the 12 year old he barely knew, but the bustle of people around him made excuses on his lazy behalf for a week. France went alone. "I didn't like you at first," she added, smiling regretfully up at him.

"Why?" he asked, playfully offended. "You wound me, Marie!"

"My mother interrupted my harpsichord lesson with Austria to tell me there was someone she wanted me to meet. I followed them to the foyer and when I first laid eyes on you I was scared to death of you! Everything about you screamed 'elegance'. You were so much taller than me, and you carried yourself with such poise! Such presence and confidence. . . Similar to Roderich's presence, but distinct in its own way. He has an air of assertion and cold calculation, and so did you but you also felt very . . . sly. Very subtle and mischievous and playful. You had the sharpest, most alert blue eyes I'd ever seen, and your face was so handsome it made my heart flutter in my chest. I felt like I was wrong for even being in the same room as you."

"I have that effect on people."

"You offered your hand to me and i hesitated. Roderich was about to scold me, and then you knelt down and held up a finger to silence him. I couldn't speak French very well yet, so I had no idea what you said to me, but while you were talking I was captivated by your smooth, rich voice. You managed to coax my hand into yours and you kissed it, then pulled out a whole rose from your coat pocket and gave it to me. It was so ridiculous that I laughed as I accepted it and your alluring, glamorous smile."

France couldn't remember what he said either. But she had every other detail memorized. He felt deeply flattered by it, flattered that she felt comfortable enough with him to tell him. She continued, "We entertained you, having hot tea in one of the drawing rooms. I caught snippets when Mother spoke in German for Roderich to translate, but you talked a lot about things that were over my head. Of course, at the time I didn't stock the experience. It was unpleasant and awkward to say the least. When we met again after the wedding, I didn't recognize you, or even remember that I met someone exactly like you."

"Hm," he mumbled. "That was the same day I first 'met' Louis. You both were late, and the moment he got there he wanted to leave again. Your entourage saw you to your chambers, so I went there and talked to you. I hope," he began, staring pleadingly into her eyes, "that you hold me in higher favor than back then." France's eyebrows furrowed at the thought of how his opinions of Marie and Louis plummeted, and he quickly tried to cover up the change before she noticed.

"Of course," she said, nodding. "You are much less intimidating now."

He almost laughed. Brief flashes of the riots played behind his eyes, of the people he beat down without remorse, of his violence on the battlefield that used to bring him joy. How easy it was for him to lose himself in the fire, in the fervor, in the passion. That one moment in Louis' office when he threw the bottle at him, almost injured him before he regained his senses. The peoples' anger, bleeding into France. He hoped that Brienne and Louis could help him fix things before he snapped.

Snapped. That felt like he was making assumptions, jumping to the most melodramatic conclusion he could. But he had no idea how a worse situation would affect him. For all he knew he could snap.

"Thank you for comforting me, France." He took that as his cue that she wanted to be alone again, so he retreated a few steps and bowed to her.

"So, September? First week?"

"September."

 

**_July 6, 1787_**  
**_Louvre, Paris_**  
**_Le Palais des Tuileries, France's Chambers_**

Not usually a fusser, France couldn't even deal with his own stress levels.

On the way over, France stupidly tried to force himself to entertain the notion that returning to Paris and the Tuileries Palace was something to look forward to. That it would be another rejuvenating experience. He tried to tell himself that returning to his capital, placing himself among the people, the noises, the sights, the smells, the pleasantries, the attractions just like he did the first time would help him. He tried to think it to himself until he believed it, but in his heart he knew. France knew why it wouldn't be the same.

It wasn't hard to discern. He was scared. He dreaded this encounter and every possible outcome even more than the Assembly of Notables. At least with the Assembly he was putting his faith in Calonne, a man with a strong backbone. A man with passion, who could root himself in his own ideas. This time he was putting his faith in Louis. Solely, completely, in Louis. France didn't even think Louis knew what Louis believed. He just expected France to pump him with the right information to spew, which he may back out of spewing anyway.

The apprehension felt like it was actually killing France, sickening his heart, balling it up and dragging it down into his stomach until he couldn't function. Paris was the darkness in his dream, the monster that left the confines of its under-bed prison, rushing closer and closer, destroying everything in its wake. Born in the deepest recesses of his mind, it was the representation of everything that could go wrong - that he could be swallowed up, lost, dead and gone because of someone else. Only this time, he was running towards the gummy, erratic, chaotic, terrifying mass. Praying for the best. So dark he couldn't even see his hands in front of him, and he was going to try and wade blindly through, fight and claw and scratch with no idea where he was or if there was even an end to crawl to.

Every time he tried to run through what was about to happen in his head, there was nothing there to go off of. He felt like he was staring into a black hole and was simply expected to know what to do to get to the bottom. He abhorred thinking about it with every part of his soul, but there was no way he could ignore it until the actual meeting. There was no way he could wing it. Try to predict on the fly what they would say, and trust Louis to say the right things. He had to prepare for everything anyone could possibly say and how to cover for it. If they ask Louis this, and he stands firm, what could happen next? If he gives way, how can I save the situation and change his mind again before they carry it out? He just didn't know. It was mentally taxing, bolstering every level of uneasiness he had, and they hadn't even gone to the Palais de Justice yet. So he just chose to put it off for as long as possible.

When they arrived at Tuileries at 11:00 that morning and the staff unloaded his bags, he immediately went to his room and flopped on the bed to take a nap. He wanted to make sure he was rested and prepared for the afternoon of a lifetime. But his mind was moving too fast, shooting in a hundred different directions at once, all of them bad. He kept getting this image of facing a panel of judges, all white-faced and black robed, like executioners. Heads shaking no, Louis literally backing out of the room against a barrage of insults, their laughter swallowing up everything France had to say. Screaming, crying, pleading, but they couldn't hear him over the sound of their bellows. He grew smaller and smaller, they rose up above him, seven feet tall, and they laughed down at him. Pointed at him, condemned him. The scenario was burned into the back of his eyelids and he couldn't cast it away. A nap was out of the question.

He sat around the drawing room instead, looking at the details of the room and remembering some of the things the room had seen before operations moved to Versailles. The wine stain on the rug was still there, right beside the settee. If he remembered correctly that was . . . in 1660, under Louis XIV. The staff offered to replace it but France declined, insisting it gave the room a certain charm (After all, charm was the reason it got there in the first place, if you caught France's drift). It was as routine of a one-night stand as it could get. She boldly eyed him all night and he eyed her right back until he decided to go over to her. He didn't even have to say anything to her. He just offered her his hand. She practically led him to his room. Both drinking at the party, both drinking immediately before she made a move on him. Hence, the stain.

All the chairs were still there, in exactly the same places that he left them in. Apparently the staff dusted but didn't move anything. Fine by him. He used to personally entertain a lot in his apartments back then. He practically threw his own parties when Louis XV entertained. He remembered one specific time in 1741, when he was in Tuileries on official business. When everyone was too drunk and somehow a game of cards that risked clothing came about and eventually a woman ended up with only her undergarments on, which led to France purposefully losing, which led to him kissing her in . . . places, and it was just bad. Bad, bad, bad. Louis XV thought it was hilarious when he waltzed in on everyone. Jeanne Bécu, his Maîtresse-en-titre, did not. Which was SO hypocritical of her, his _mistress_ , he thought.

Nowadays, there were more chairs in there than people he would ever entertain again - he just wanted to be alone now. Absolutely alone except for emergencies of state. Armchairs, couches, chaises, all covered in the same white satin with green and purple flower patterns. Buds in every stage of bloom arranged on embroidered stems and vines. They were arranged in a circle in the center of the room. With the exception of the garish stain, the plush rug that covered the whole room had the same colors to match, and the same circle pattern. Art covered nearly every inch of exposed wall, on either side of the door to his bedroom, between each window, on tables, leaned against the walls, everywhere. Far too much to look at, but of course, it made the room look opulent. Flower vases everywhere, stands and bookshelves, holding all manner of books and knick-knacks. France made it a point to avoid looking at the timepiece, instead roving his eyes to the hole in the molding near the rear wall. One time in 1564, the fourteen year old King Charles IX was playing with France when he was (if France had to guess) ten or eleven years old, and they put a hole in the BRAND NEW palace wall. They were playing at fencing, and France went to thrust his cane into le Roi's abdomen when he wormed out of the way. The dull point still punched a hole so deep . . .

France tried to cover it up with a painting, and they believed themselves to be clever. Until someone came to fetch Charles. They were found out immediately.

All in all, a very aesthetically pleasing and nostalgic room, if one knew what they were looking at. Otherwise, it was just confusing.

The only thing that didn't seem to match were the drapes over each window. They were a deep, solid gold, but the room itself brought them together with the gold trim on the white panels on the wall. Gold engraved above the door frame in floral patterns as well. Too busy, too much. Smothering, when looked at in the wrong light. To combat the squirmy feeling, France pulled his jacket off, kicked off his heeled shoes and padded over to the offending stain, getting down on his hands and knees to see if the wine's aroma was still there. He inhaled deeply and to his delight, he could still smell the ripe, distinct Bourgogne grapes, the rich Pinôt Noir from the prestigious Côte de Nuits vineyards. Faded and gentle, but still there.

Mmmmm, wine sounded excellent. And, he added smoothly, it would definitely help him sleep. He crossed the room and threw open the doors, and the staff stationed there bowed to him.

"Can I get you something, Monsieur?" one of them asked.

" _Non, mon ami, merci_. I just wanted a glass or two of wine, but I'll get it myself. Need to keep myself busy, you know?" he all-but babbled, not pausing to talk. Oh, well. He probably looked crazy anyway without his shoes on.

 

Before they left Tuileries, France swore he would remain calm. He told himself over and over that he had nothing to fear. He had nothing to fear, this would work, and everything would be fine.

It was a pathetic effort that worked for a while, maybe twenty minutes? For France that was fantastic, but as much as he thought he convinced himself, the moment they got in the carriage for Le Palais, he slowly slipped into the emotional wreck he knew he would be. As each meter passed beneath the carriage wheels, France couldn't stop the fluttering in his chest, the heat rising to his cheeks, the sweating that wouldn't stop, the shallow, fast-paced quality his breathing took on. He rested his feet on the floor and they rolled up onto his toes almost immediately. His leg started bouncing furiously, he started chewing on the skin around his fingernails, and he didn't realize he was doing either until he tasted blood.

"Monsieur France?" Brienne asked.

"Hm?" he grunted, simply raising his eyebrows. Brienne, ever the diplomat, didn't look nervous at all. He hid his tics well with a straight back and crossed legs. The only testament to any fear he had was the white-knuckled grip he had on his satchel. France didn't want to look him in the face. Didn't want to display his nerves anymore than he already was.

"Are you alright?"

No. No. Non. Nein. Nyet."Oui!" Brienne's eyebrow lifted skeptically, but France ignored it. "Okay! We're nearly at _le Palais_. Let's go over a few things," France said, rallying himself and his three-man army. "I think the most important thing to remember is that these men are not our friends. We are here to upset their established order. We are here to challenge their very way of life. They may begin with smiles and well wishes, _Majesté_ , but as soon as we oppose them . . . We will meet passionate resistance, on the grounds of selfishness and long-standing tradition. It doesn't matter how they word it, how they try to twist it. That is their foundation for opposition. And we must. not. yield. Do you understand? Compromise is not an option. They either do what we want, or they do not. And if that is their decision, then so be it. That is what the lit is for. You know what you're going to say?" he asked, turning to face Louis sitting beside him.

"Oui."

"Tell me."

"I will first begin by declaring that the three of us have already accepted and approved everything on the itinerary. I will explain the figures and statistics of the new wages and tax reforms, calling upon Monsieur Brienne when needed. The two of us will answer any questions."

"And what if it becomes heated, or rude?" France prompted.

"I will remind them who they are talking to. If they continue to pester me, I can throw them out."

" _Oui, Sire_. Then what?"

"Then, you will propose the other half of this reform, the civil liberties. Give your reasoning, your experiences, anything you want or need to give. I will call for their deliberation, and we will meet as often as we need to until their decision."

"Oui. And what is the time frame we're giving them?"

"Until September."

" _Très bien_. I will say one more time, Louis: we don't have to go through the Parliaments at all-"

"We already went over this, France. If I do not go through them and try to call the _lit_ , the very fact that I didn't consult them will be their loophole. For once I will not let them bend me. For once I will stand firm in my sentiments." He looked France in the eyes and nodded solemnly, and France softly returned his gaze. "I am in your corner now, France. As I hope you are in mine."

They fell silent once more, and as they crossed Pont Neuf France's senses went back into overdrive. He picked the tics back up, his senses sharpened from the adrenaline coursing through him. Everything took on a sort of ethereal clarity; colors brightened before his eyes, movements seemed slow and deliberate. He could barely listen to the short prayer Brienne led with his heart pounding so loudly in his ears. A sharp pain shot down the cut on his back and he squirmed, wincing slightly.

Everything had to run perfectly here.

The carriage clattered through the gate and right up to the steps, and France let Louis and Brienne out first when the porters opened the door. He stepped out into the Paris sun and gave Louis one final once-over, straightening his lop-sided cravat. "We'll be fine." He dusted off Louis' shoulders, tugged at the bottom of his vest, "We'll be fine," tucked a bit of sleeve back into Louis' jacket, "We'll be fine." He went to dust of Louis' shoes when he suddenly grabbed France by the shoulders.

"France! Merci. _Allons-y_." He gestured for France to lead the way. He almost declined, then thought better of it. This was such a fragile situation, and France knew he was the backbone of this whole operation. If he showed any sign of weakness he was sure it would shatter any confidence he managed to instill in Louis. He just hoped they couldn't see his knees shaking from the back. They climbed the stairs, every one seeming to get higher and higher to France until he could barely breathe. They entered through the huge, dwarfing doors and strolled into the first antechamber. A clatter rose up as everyone around the table went to stand, but Louis motioned for them to remain seated as he took his seat at the head of the table. France took up his position on Louis' right, and Brienne stood behind him on the left.

He looked down the entire time they entered, and when he finally raised his eyes he almost deemed it a mistake. They glared daggers at all three of them, so vehemently that France could practically feel the waves of malice rolling off of them. They hit his chest, hit his face like a hot gust of wind. Another twinge shot down his back, and he resisted every urge to drop everything - drop his eyes, drop his façade of calmness - and run. Run out of there and hide away and never speak to another human being for as long as he lived on this green earth. He was grateful when Louis wasted no time in beginning the meeting.

"Messieurs," Louis began. "I would like to preface this meeting with a reminder."

What? No! Wrong, wrong, wrong, not on the list _not on the list_! He was supposed to start with the 'already been approved' bit! France stared hard at Louis, sending every single 'Please don't mess this up,' feeling he had.

"I want everyone here to remember why we are here. We are here out of concern for the State. For the current well-being, and future prosperity of the State. For France's needs. Not our own. Do you understand what I am saying to you, gentlemen?" France could tell in their gazes they knew exactly what he was saying. It was a sly dig at all of them for their selfishness, and a warning that Louis already saw through it. They would not pull one over on him. He received a few measly nods in reply, but a majority of the men never broke their cold gazes. France immediately went to Louis' defense, hardening his own gaze in spite of himself and sharpening the glass in his eyes. He would not let them intimidate him or Louis. He roved his eyes around the table and took pride in every man who met his scrutiny and had to look away.

"Okay. Let us begin. I have two major propositions for this council. I believe that the implementation of these points will mean an immediate improvement of France's financial, economic, and social situation which, as we all know, is threatening collapse. I was extremely, extremely disappointed in the unfavorable reaction I received from the national Parlement at Versailles. Thus, I have brought these changes to the Parisian council with the hopes that you will see the overall benefits as I do and make the appropriate decision. Both of these ideas already have my full confidence and support. The only thing that I ask for is yours.

"The first item on the list is a wage increase for the Third Estate, specifically agricultural employees of the Second and First Estate. I had Monsieur Bonnefoy round up old population estimates from the previous century, this century, and the last decade." (Secretly they were France's own writings, observations, and recordings from back then, when he really started growing under Louis XIV. But nobody had to know that. Technically they were official documents. And at the very least, he set them up to look official. France silently thanked himself a thousand times over for his meticulous writing habits.) Louis beckoned Brienne forward with a finger and he pulled a stack of papers from his satchel, handing them to Louis. "Of course, these are only estimates, but France's population has expanded tremendously, from an estimated. . . " he led on, dragging his finger down the paper to find the figure he was looking for, " . . . 15 million in the mid 1600s to . . . " He flipped to the next page and found the next number as well. " . . . 18 million in the early 1700s. Only recently an estimate by Jacques Necker in his Administration des Finances rounds out at a shocking 25 million in 1784. Please, gentlemen, peruse these documents. They bear witness to what I say." He held them out to France and he walked around the table to hand them to the closest person before returning to Louis' side. "According to Monsieur Brienne, the Third Estate makes up 97 percent of the population. I'm not sure what you all think, but 97 percent of the population is, and always has been, substantial."

Just as France thought they would, they didn't look over the papers nearly as closely as they should have to realize anything was amiss. Most of them glanced them over and quickly shuffled them along, while those who looked merely sought to find the figures Louis found. As soon as they reached Brienne on the other side of the table he neatly jogged the papers on the table until they were back in a pristine stack. Louis continued, "With those numbers in mind, I will defer to Monsieur Brienne to tie it all together with the economic projections."

He began speaking immediately. "I have much to discuss. If there are any questions, do not hesitate to ask. I wish to begin with brief proportions of land. In Upper Brittany and Normandy we see nobility owning 50-60 percent of land. In Orléanais, 40 percent. Burgundy, 35 percent. Picardy, 33 percent. All across France we see large disproportions, including here in Paris. Why is this important?" he prompted. "Because the Third Estate is having problems owning their own land. They are forced to be tenant farmers. France abolished the mortmain principal in 1779, during Necker's first term as finance minister, but many nobles never put it into practice despite the governmental mandate. We still see many nobles holding land unalienably, and a vast majority of the Third Estate still indebted to that land to make their meager living. In fact, some tenant farmers and cooperative farmers are forced to borrow from their landlord until the next harvest. Some do own land, and there are some who can live exclusively off of working their own land as well as conduct successful trades on the side as artisans. But most do not own enough land to live comfortably. The poorest are those who work as day-laborers, hiring themselves out on a day-to-day basis. They are at the mercy of their proprietors. I want to make it extremely clear to the men of this council how difficult it is for the Third Estate to better their own financial situation. They require legislative assistance, and, being 97 percent of the population, a boost to their capital would better France's economy indefinitely.

"So, what do we have in mind as far as their wages? The average foreman makes a wage of 84-90 livres. A carter: 54-66 livres. An ox-driver: 30-36, a stable boy: 60-66, a maidservant: 24-33. These are not exceptional wages, and when the taxes are deducted from them - dues, admission to status payments, rent, tolls, market and fair, tithes, taille - it amounts to roughly a 36 percent deduction. From the lowest wage, that is 8.25 livres. That is only the most basic mathematical assessment. It is impossible to account for every individual addition made by each noblemen. What's more, due to the unpredictability of the weather . . . "

With each uninterrupted word Brienne spoke, France started to relax. He started to gain control of his breathing; his heart didn't feel like it was going to rip through his chest anymore. But it wasn't over, and he knew that. He still had to prepare for his piece. The civil liberties. Which, he suddenly thought, was the hardest part. It was difficult to argue with hard facts, statistics, calculations, like Brienne had. France had none of that, just a feeling, a National hunch that he was going to have to verbalize exactly the right way to make them take him seriously. Otherwise, they were going to laugh him out of the room.

Oh, God, he wasn't ready for that. He suddenly realized with a brand new chill that shot down his spine that he could very well be the one to ruin the entire thing for all three of them. If he screwed up, even the slightest, they would reject all of it. How ironic. He was so worried about Louis he never even considered the chance that he could be the one to ruin everything. His heart palpated again, his knees literally shook. All he wanted to do was sit down. People were asking questions, responding, arguing with Brienne, with Louis, but France zoned out for the rest of Brienne's speech, trying to settle down and carefully plan out what he was going to say. He just couldn't focus. His mind kept reverting back to, "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu."

He briefly tuned back in to check where they were and make sure Brienne was still doing alright. "Uniformity is the key here. Weights and measures differ from province to province, village to village even! In some cases, taxes are determined and distributed by elected officials of the province. In others it is determined by direct agents of the King. In parts of Berry, Anjou, Poitou, and others, there are civil laws that direct. I anticipate that there are over a hundred different customary laws in effect at once. Over 100 different ways of regulating the same body - France . . . "

" _Okay, France. When they turn it over to you, start with . . . Mon Dieu, ummm . . . Merde! Ok, start with . . . What did we even talk about? Freedom of assembly, start there. Oh, mon Dieu. . . Be honest with them. People are unhappy - no what's a better word? Discontent? Ok, people are discontent with . . . with the mismanagement of everything Monsieur Brienne mentioned . . . mon Dieu! No, start over. I believe more civil liberties to be the key to - to WHAT? . . . I can't do this . . . Voltaire wrote - merde!_ "

"Francis!" Louis said, startling him out of his mental panic session.

"Hm? What, what? What's wrong?" he blubbered.

Louis gestured to the table. "You'd like to discuss the second part of the agenda: the civil liberties?" he said, shooting France a questioning glance. France looked around at the men at the table, momentarily confused after being so lost in his own mind.

" _O-oui, Majesté_." He cleared his throat. And it went in an entirely different direction than he thought. "Ummm, I actually don't think I need to explain why the Third Estate is so, ummm, frustrated based on Monsieur Brienne's assessment of their financial station. Rather, I think I need to explain why it is coming to a head now. Why do they threaten violence _now?_ Why not a century ago? The French monarchy is the longest standing, most successful monarchy in history, but let's be honest. Inequity has been the feudal system's driving force for centuries, and people have just calmly accepted it as tradition and way of life. So why, all of a sudden, are the people calling for change? I think the answer is in the writings and teachings of Enlightenment thinkers, and the example set by America.

"Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Réne Descartes, Voltaire, and Montesquieu. You all know their names, and their fame. I'll even bet some of you have read their works. They are all widely, widely published in America and France both. The people are constantly steeped in their educated views, and their opinions. They're political. Analytical. Appealing to both reason and emotion. No error or inequality left unaddressed. No human folly uncriticized. They whisper destruction and revolt. But at the same time they scream hope for a new future. For a reconstruction of a system that craves justice and loves liberty.

"Rousseau in particular is extremely popular because he relates to the common man's struggle in this society we have. His _Emile, or On Education_ claims the importance of education, and comments on its inaccessibility to the public and its extreme influence on citizenship. The Third Estate agrees because they, funny enough," he said, injecting a new sarcastic fire in his voice, "don't have access to education." There. Good. He finally rooted himself in what he was saying. He finally felt comfortable. "His _Discourse on Inequality_ states that the basis of all inequality is personal property, and the Second Estates' questionable sense of entitlement to that property! How ironic, considering the Second Estate feels entitled to everything Brienne mentioned-"

One of them opened his mouth to probably scoff or laugh but France scowled directly at him, narrowing his eyes. He practically paled and promptly shut his mouth.

"Most importantly, though, is his _Social Contract_ , which argues against the idea of Divine Right, that monarchs are divinely empowered to legislate. Of course that idea would appeal to them - Who says they cannot improve their stations? God? How can that be, they argue, if man has free will? Nature dictates that men are free, and are only oppressed by other men, not by God. So who says they should be enslaved simply because of how they were born? Also along those lines is John Locke, the English philosopher! His Second Treatise - the natural state of man! Voltaire - freedoms of expression, speech, religion, criticisms on the church! Montesquieu - despotism and the division of powers!" He took a second to pause for dramatic effect, allowing them to comprehend for themselves the ripples across society those writings created.

"Of course, they are based solely on ideals. On genuine convictions and thoughts. Believing in ideals and sentiments is easy. Acting upon them, putting peoples' convictions under pressure is often where people fall short. Not the United States. The United States of America did not fall short. Formerly a British colony. Under the same political, economic, social oppression that our Third Estate feels now. They took those writings to heart. They acted upon their pursuit of justice, their questions, their challenges of subjugation, their fears. They began with small protests, rejecting Britain's taxation, not paying and not enacting the laws passed overseas for them. With their success came more and more support. Then we saw the Boston Tea Party in 1773. The battles at Lexington and Concord. Major victories in Charleston, Trenton, Yorktown by militia. A group of ragged, disorganized men with little to no prior fighting experience, with only the might of their metaphysical, abstract beliefs behind them. We literally see the system challenged, and we see a victory against it. What do you think that showed the world, Monsieurs?

"I managed to obtain a copy of the American Declaration of Independence from an American correspondent. Based heavily, heavily on the writings of those I mentioned earlier including Englishman Francis Bacon, and Americans Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson just to name a few. Majesté," he said, shuffling the document over to Louis, "will you translate, please? He's going to read this passage to you from the Declaration that summarizes every sentiment the American people have acted upon, and the French people want to act on." Louis took a moment to stare at the paper, nodding at the English. Then he translated on sight: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness - That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed - That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.'"

France took the paper back. "Merci, Majesté. We're teetering on a dangerous, dangerous social scaffold. America has proved too much to them. America has proved that they can stand up to their oppressors. They can defy tradition, they can defy their tyrants, they can defy everything they've been told their whole lives, and they can begin anew. They can start over and build a society based on them rather than the nobility, where they are free to live their own lives, to improve themselves. Whether we are aware or not, we ARE the oppressor. We are what Britain was to America. We. Look. Like. Their. Enemies. The slightest show of physical animosity towards them will light the spark. I think we need something - anything - to temporarily placate them. These ideals are never going to go away. They're going to gain strength, and if we don't show them that we desire their happiness as much as we want to maintain stability, society will collapse. Mark my words. I suggest we give them what they want. Civil liberties. The things Voltaire wrote about. The freedoms of expression, the freedom to convene as they want. Personally I don't care if you actually DO care about them or not. Threaten their station, France," he reminded himself. "But if you care at ALL about maintaining your status, maintaining the aristocracy and stability of the monarchy, you will cater to the people. There is no government without the people, gentlemen. There isn't even God without people."

He nodded to Louis and he immediately stood up, motioning to Brienne to leave the official signed and sealed document with each reform on it on the table. "Look this over, and we will reconvene next week for discourse and deliberation. Right now I wish to return to Tuileries." The other men stood at once, bowing to Louis, and the three of them strode out of the room to head back to Tuileries.

The second France shut the door behind him he collapsed back against it with a loud THUMP! He put his hand over his pounding heart and took the largest breath he could muster, sighing it out in a tense release. Shrugging off his coat, he bunched it up into a ball in his hands and pressed it to his face, resisting the urge to scream as loud as he possibly could into the fabric.

"What?" asked Louis, gently squeezing his arm. "Was that not good?"

"Oui, oui." He shook his head, letting out a hopeful chuckle. " _Oui, Majesté. C'était parfait!_ The ball is in their court, now. We came so prepared we'll be able to answer every single one of their questions. At this point, we delivered it so articulately that the only reason I can see rejection is because of defiance. Then we have an official testament to the selfishness and character of these men, and we can send them away with little to no public opposition if we must." He raised his head to the sky. " _Dieu merci_."

Louis nodded at France, allowing a small smile stretch across his lips. " _Très bien_. Nicely done, France, Monsieur Brienne. Let's go back to Tuileries. Have some wine. After you," he said, gesturing to France.

Before he peeled himself from the door he was shocked to find his nose was runny. He sniffed, methodically pulling his handkerchief from his pocket to wife at it. When he pulled the cloth away from his face, a splotch of vibrant red caught his attention. His nose was bleeding. He quickly got up and passed Louis, desperate to hide it, but the man gasped. "France, your back."

France arched his back and tried to peer over his shoulder, but he couldn't see what Louis meant. "What's wrong?"

"Your scratch. It's bled through the bandages, and your shirt! I though it was only seeping before!"

"It was," he muttered, shrugging slightly. "I'll get it tended when we get back. Nothing I can do now. Let's go. I'm anxious to sit down."

 

**July 19, 1787**  
**_Hôtel-de-Ville, Paris_**  
**_Le Palais de Justice, Front Antechamber_**

 

  
_'Francey-pants,_

_I hope the Declaration got to you in time, and i hope it served you well. Use it however you have to. Show it around, send it to as many people as you want! Hell, publish it in the papers! I don't care! Show the world what me and Washington have done! What we built together in the wake of Britain's ugly defeat._

_As for your apology, don't worry about it. I'll tell you something I was told as a child that has stuck with me ever since._

_Before you, Britain, the Netherlands, Finland, or Sweden ever landed on my shores, I used to wander a lot. I didn't consciously go anywhere. I just kind of meandered around, surviving off the land, comfortably fending for myself until I inexplicably and inevitably found a native tribe willing to house me for a week or two. I spent a lot of time with one Powhatan tribe in particular after a pack of coyotes attacked me. Turns out we were hunting the same deer. The coyote pack won. Tore me up pretty bad, too. Took me about a week and a half to heal if that tells you anything. When I woke up the tribe called me "Wapi", meaning "Lucky"._

_Anyway, one night two of the tribesmen got into a fight over something - I can't remember what it was about now. They fought, nearly trading blows over it before the Weroance, or Chief, broke it up. The next day they were talking and laughing around the fire as though nothing happened. I asked Chief Wahunsenacawh about it. "Weren't they fighting yesterday? Aren't they mad at each other?"_

_He said - and here's where the wisdom is - "Wapi, unforgiveness is the poison one drinks every day hoping that the other person will die."_

_I still carry that pearl with me in my heart wherever I go. I hope that explains how I feel about your letter, and your apology._

_Ah, thinking about that stuff makes me feel bittersweet. Nostalgic, bordering on painful. It makes me realize how estranged and detached I've become from my native roots. I don't like that. I miss the purity of life, my spiritual connections to nature and the earth. Don't take this as an accusation, but I often wonder how things would have been different if Europeans had never landed here. If America would have remained undisturbed. It definitely would have been more peaceful, that's for sure._

_I can't say I completely want to return, though. I'm far too immersed in Western ideas now. The European world still holds that touch of wonder, of admiration and awe. When I think about all the possibilities, all the growth I've done, I feel like a kid looking up into the majesty of the stars. Not to mention the excitement of the Revolutionary War and the Declaration and the new Constitution we've got in the works . . . I'll tell you all about it when we get a finalized copy._

_Geez, I'm so off-topic. My point is I forgive you, and I hope the Declaration helped. Consider us even!_

_Au revoir,_

_Alfred F. Jones; The United States of America'_

 

"Monsieur Bonnefoy, the men of this council still have a few questions for you before we make a decision regarding the credibility of the statistics you found. Also, we wonder why you feel these new civil liberties will quell the people, rather than incite violence."

Louis snorted dismissively. "Are you implying that my advisor and my finance minister have falsified documents and information? To do so is to question my credibility and accuse my own statements of falsehood and fabrication!"

"Grounds for treason," France added smugly like a toady.

"Not at all, Majestée. We only want to make sure Monsieur Bonnefoy is providing you with correct facts, figures, and information. To lie to Sa Majestée in general, let alone to his face, is also treasonous."

"I trust him," Louis asserted. "I trust him fully and completely . . . " His voice lost power at the end. In a panic, France quickly made strong eye contact with Louis, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

"Louis, no," he mouthed. Louis winced as though in pain, then nodded, gesturing to the men at the table.

"Very well. I suppose if you must be sure, Monsieurs Bonnefoy and Brienne will submit to your questioning."

"We have nothing to hide," he snarled, staring directly at Louis.

 

**_August 1, 1787_**  
**_Luxembourg, Paris_**  
**_Le Jardin du Luxembourg_**

_'Francis,_

_How cold and dull and dreary Versailles seems without your warming presence.The joys and beauties of nature and summer remind me of you and give it color; you were the ray of sunshine that dispelled the clouds and brought together the beautiful elements of that which can only be described as the loveliest of days. The happiness that we shared together is incomparable to any other thing that I have experienced, and I hope your business in Paris is swift and successful, that I may again hold you in my arms upon your return._

_I love you._

_Tell me you love me, too. Whisper those words in my ear, down my neck. I want them to roll off your tongue and seep into my skin again.'_

 

It was the third time he read it already. Just that top section. The rest of it didn't matter. France hugged Gwen's letter close to his chest, crinkling up the parchment as a cheerful smile stretched across his lips. Amidst all the stress and anger and loathing in Paris, she was his own ray of sunshine. He shut his eyes tightly and tilted his head up to bask in the sun, remembering the warmth of her body as he hugged her close, recalling the way each strand of his hair ran through her petite, soft hands. He could still feel where her sloppy, inexperienced kisses pressed to his own skilled lips. He could still hear her sighs, smell the cool, fresh mint she chewed on.

God, she set his heart aflame.

The rest of his pleasant walk was garnished by the chirping of birds, a slight breeze that carried the scents of the gardens to him, and an odd, delightfully pink tint to everything, like a film over his eyes.

 

**_August 2, 1787_**  
**_Hôtel-de-Ville, Paris_**  
**_Le Palais de Justice, Front Antechamber_**

"I haven't the time anymore for your petty squabbling!" Louis yelled out, furiously rubbing his face. "This country hasn't the time! I wanted to give you until September out of courtesy, but one month was more than enough time than this council deserved! I need your decision. Now. Yes, or no?"

France watched every one of their faces fall in shock in the wake of Louis' outburst, himself included. He always knew Louis had something of a fire in him all along, but he didn't realize he could be that authoritative. His chest swelled and he almost smiled with pride before he realized the importance of looking serious.

His hopes were instantly dashed as they all started shouting at once. "You cannot expect us to pass . . . NO facts here . . . how dare you . . . not enough time . . . NO decision . . . Impudence! You're feeding lies to the King . . . " Each word they said crawled into France's ears and wormed its way down under his skin, like an itch. They set his teeth on edge, his head flaring in pain. He just wanted them to shut up shut up SHUT UP-

"LOUIS CALLS A LIT!" he yelled, slamming his palms on the table.

" . . . Pardon?"

" _Ecoutez, très soigneusement. Il convoque UN LIT-DE-JUSTICE!_ " His nose started bleeding - he could smell the blood even before it left his nostrils. He struggled to drag his handkerchief out of his pocket, still trying to ignore it and press forward. "You know," he said, sniffling thickly, "Louis wanted to be polite. He wanted to be the bigger person and get your approval before pulling the rug out from under you like I told him to do." He gestured wildly to himself, trying to hide the red splotches on the cloth. "All you did was confirm my and his worst fears. That you are all self-serving, arrogant, egotistical, ignorant, and STUBBORN! We are . . . "

He trailed off as suddenly a hot, feverish feeling rose in his cheeks. His breathing quickened before he could regain control, and he watched helplessly as the room started to swim dangerously in front of his eyes. "Non, non, non, pas ici. Pas ici." The room was silent but the white noise still seemed to fade away from his ears and the light seemed to fade from his eyes. A sharp spasm raced down his cut and his mind went blank from the force of it. His knees collapsed and he luckily threw his elbows over the table to hold himself up. Brienne moved to help him but he held up a hand towards his general direction, frozen there until his senses returned back to normal after what seemed like at least an hour. "Désolé," he muttered, swallowing thickly. "We are getting this reform passed whether you want it or not." He tried to reclaim the fire that he lost, but it was long gone. He finished pathetically, "And we are going to do whatever we have to do to pass it. Even if it means bypassing Parliaments completely."

Whether it was awkward silence at his (embarrassingly open) display of pain, or stunned silence in the wake of his outburst, he couldn't tell. Either way, he wanted to rub it in. To sacrifice dignity and maturity for the sake of feeling like he won something against these men. He spread his arms wide, openly daring any of them to oppose him. He wished they would. He wished they would confront him, try to fight him on it. He had years and years' worth of evidence to support his own claims that they were the reason nothing was being done. He gave them five seconds to say something - anything - then turned to Louis, cocking his head towards the door.

"Ah! Just a moment!" France turned towards the voice, but couldn't pinpoint who it came from until they spoke again. "You mentioned yesterday, Monsieur Brienne, of noblemen not enacting some of the bans on mortmain principles. I'm concerned that the same should happen here. What if . . . " he began without the slightest touch of question, "some noblemen across Paris find it outside their best interest to lessen their collection of taxes? Or improve the wages of their workers?"

"Most of you are King Louis' intendants, directly appointed to districts to carry out royal law. You've all heard the decrees here. It is up to you to implement them. And if some of you don't, then those people would meet the crown's justice," France spat. He didn't want them to figure out if there was any merit to that claim or not, considering he didn't even know himself. He roughly grabbed Louis' shoulder and pulled him from the room.

 

**_August 25, 1787_**  
**_Le Palais des Tuileries, Antechamber_**

"Again!"

"Messieurs . . . " Louis began hesitantly.

"Louder!" France ordered, so forcefully Louis flinched.

"Messieurs," he said more confidently. "Until-"

"Look me in the eyes," he said, lifting Louis' chin. He pointed his pointer and index finger at Louis' faded, fearful eyes, then to his own piercing blue. "Right here. If you can face me when you say it you can face them."

"Messieurs, u-until now, I have let, ummm, my Parliament-"

"Your father's Parliament," he corrected.

"Oui, my father Louis XV's Parliament govern under my rule as well." He dropped his eyes to France's shoes again.

"Ah! Ah! Look here!" he shouted. Louis shot his eyes back up and continued.

"Henceforth, I rule alone. I shall, u-uh, I shall govern on my own. You will council me if I request it. I order . . . I order . . . "

"You order them-"

" _Non, je peux le faire_. I order you to sign nothing, not even a passport, without my consent. Such is my will, gentlemen. Now you must obey it."

" _Très bien_. Again."

"Just a moment. Are you sure? About this? Are you sure it's enough? It seems, well, it seems rather . . . short."

"It's succinct, Louis, articulate. An articulate speech, worthy of the articulate Sun King. He was trying to get rid of the Parliament and govern on his own, just like you are now. It worked for him, and so it'll work for you."

" _Le Roi Soleil_ really said these exact same words?"

"I tweaked the speech a TINY bit to better fit this situation, but for the most part, yes."

Louis fell silent, and France could see the frown begin to mar his stoic face. " _Quoi? Qu'est-ce qui ne vas pas?_ "

He sighed deeply. "I am not _Le Roi Soleil_ , France."

" . . . I know that."

"In fact, I am so far removed from his image that I feel . . . I know I will never reach the majesty he had. I know that you have seen better days, and I know I am not nearly the best ruler you've had in a while. So when I am compared to him, I just feel that if he could see what I've done here during my rule I fear he would laugh. My reign pales in comparison. And I am humiliated by that. I am embarrassed to face you sometimes in its wake."

France sighed as well, taking a moment to think carefully about his reply. He remembered a time when his tongue was like silver and he knew how to stroke any man's ego with the smallest utterance. Those times were gone. He never learned how to read this Louis. How to work him. He never fully discovered everything there was to know about him, and he doubted he ever would. The man was too hidden for too long, and now that he was only beginning to open up to France, he felt there was still a wall there. "I know you're not Le Roi Soleil. You are Louis XVI. He lived a hundred years ago, and you're dealing with different problems. Of course your rules are going to be different. Don't ever think I expect you to be anyone other than Louis XVI. And I don't think he'd laugh."

"Why not? I myself feel it justified if he did."

"Maybe initially. Maybe before 1784. But now? Absolutely not. He would not laugh. Because he'd see the same thing I see. And that is a man who is admittedly scared, upset, betrayed, but still brave enough to stand his ground. He'd see him continually try over and over and over again to set things right despite the number of failures. He'd see a man facing a MOUNTAIN of problems, and he'd see that same man doing whatever he knew how to to climb it. He'd see you not giving up, as I have seen you. That is something honorable. Again, Louis."

"How do you think history will remember me? Will that be my legacy? Not giving up, or will it be . . . discordant complacency, or apathy?"

" _Je ne sais pas_ , Louis. I tend not to worry about things like that. It makes me feel odd about myself and ask existential questions I'd rather leave untouched. Don't worry about the future, or the past. Worry about now. Now is what is important. After this meeting, we can worry about the future." Louis nodded, and France raised his eyebrows. "Again."

"Messieurs, until now, I have let my father Louis XV's Parliament govern under my rule as well. Henceforth, I rule alone. I shall govern on my own. You will council me if I request it. I order you to sign nothing, not even a passport, without my consent. Such is my will, gentlemen. Now you must obey it."

"And what do we do next?"

"We walk out. No explanation, no nothing. The guards will remove them if they must."

" _Très bien_. Again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez, that was a long chapter! I hope it was a good one. I move in to my sophomore year of college on August 14th (Friday), so I hope that no matter what happens I can manage to squeeze chapters in whenever I can. Let me know what you thought of this chapter in the comments if you have time to leave one! Thank you to everyone who's bookmarked/kudos-ed so far! I love each and every one of you.
> 
> -Keyblader
> 
> One more thing! The speech France is making Louis recite I borrowed from Gérard Corbiau's movie _Le Roi Danse (2000)_.
> 
> 9/6/16 - Wow . . . this chapter was written a whole year ago, posted today! I'm now a college junior. I'm currently taking a Music History class, from Antiquity to Baroque. Basically, from the fall of Rome in 476 to 1700. And the more I learn, the more I realize that France was the musical POWERHOUSE in Europe for a long, long while in the 9th through the 13th centuries. A whole new style of chant and polyphony originated in France called Notre Dame Polyphony. And even the secular version of that, the motet, came from France as well, with French or Latin text. It makes me wish I could incorporate it into this story, but unfortunately France rarely has the time for such pleasures anymore with all the turmoil. :(
> 
> Anyway, leave a comment if you have time!


	11. Chapter 11

**_September 3, 1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, Cour Royale_ **

Prussia stepped out of the carriage first. France could see the shock of silver hair even from the other side of the courtyard. And he could hear Prussia from there, too. Raspy, dirty tones, unmistakably Prussia. "Oh, thank God! SOLID LAND!" he cried as he stretched.

"I almost didn't see you there! The sun was glaring off your pale skin, you stupid albino!"

He followed the voice, and as soon as his eyes locked on France's his face broke into a grin. He jerked his forearm, mouthing, "Up yours!" Then he broke into a sprint across the courtyard. He leapt onto France, wrapping his arms around his waist like a leech, pressing France's face to his chest. "Heeeeeeeeeey, loser!" he yelled. They staggered back; France wrapped his arms around Prussia and spun him around like a happily married couple. Prussia peeled himself off and hopped lithely to the ground, then wrapped his arms around France's shoulders again in a genuine hug.

"I missed you, _mon ami_ ," France said.

"Missed you too."

"Don't forget about me!" Spain said. France lightly shoved Prussia away to hug Spain next.

The ferocity of his tight hug surprised him. "Geez," he said, chuckling awkwardly. "More of that and you'll kill me!"

"Just happy to see you," Spain said, holding him at arm's length. "We were so worried."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Prussia gathered the two of them under his arm. "It doesn't matter now! The trio's back together! YES!"

"Come on. I'll show you to your rooms."

 

 

 **_September 4, 1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, Hall of Mirrors_ **

"Okay, I swear, if you do anything to purposefully embarrass me, you'll go right back to Prussia."

"Oh, would you relax? You don't need me to embarrass you. You do a pretty good job of it on your own."

"Ha-ha-ha! Very funny. I'm serious. Pleasantries are different on this side of Europe. And if I'm being honest, your etiquette is a little bit . . . unrefined. Just . . . don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"As if that gives me any parameters. Look, it's not my fault if your aristocrats are more emotionally sensitive than Prussian aristocrats. Say _one little thing_ , or do _one little thing_ that _may_ be taken as _slightly rude or offensive_ , and suddenly you're the scourge of society here. They should learn to take a hit every once in a while."

"Prussia, do as he says," Spain commented, ever the parent of the group. "You seem nervous."

"I am really nervous," admitted France, quickening his pace in sync with his heartbeat. "I've been maintaining good, albeit awkward terms with Louis lately. I seriously do not want you two ruining it."

"I'm gonna ignore how rude that actually was for a moment to ask a question: Why?" prompted Spain. "Were you two not on good terms before?"

"Not exactly." They reached the doors to one of the many antechambers where some of the party's life was. He fluffed his ponytail and straightened his peach-colored jacket.

"What do you mean?" Prussia asked.

"I'll explain later, I promise. Let's just have a good time right now."

"I can't if you're determined to ruin it," Prussia muttered.

The porters opened the doors for them, and Prussia and Spain got their first look in over 50 years at the grandeur of Louis XVI and Marie's Versailles.

Colors everywhere, people in every shade of reds, blues, greens, purples. All the candle light bathed the entire room in a sort of surreal, ethereal gold light, giving the entire place an overall look of a pleasant dream. Music, dancing, mirrors everywhere to reflect the opulence. The chandeliers sent gold fractals across every surface available, and shone off the jewels around peoples' necks and wrists and clothes. Gambling, of course, laughing, good spirits, and lots of wine to go around. Beautiful, if France did say so himself. Absolutely beautiful.

"Wooooooow," Spain breathed, eyes roving across the scene. France smiled with pride at their slack-jawed expressions. When he could forget all the rest of his more important problems, Versailles really was a wonder at her peak.

The scene must have knocked Prussia's memory clean of their previous conversation. He shoved past France and Spain and waltzed right into the ballroom like he owned the place. His scratchy, piercing voice carried well, even over the string quartet. "Move over, losers! The Great Prussia has finally arrived! Now the party can start!"

"Are you kidding me?" France grumbled.

Spain ran over and clamped a hand over Prussia's mouth, hauling him away from the spot-light. "Be glad they can't understand a word you're saying, idiota!" he joked, dragging Prussia away. "'Who's the weird German guy that Monsieur Bonnefoy brought to the party, eh?'" He smiled against the glares and waved an awkward apology on Prussia's behalf.

"German?! Excuse them, I'm Prussian!" he huffed as soon as he pried Spain's hand away from his mouth.

"Stop it, you two! People are staring! Come on, I need to introduce you to Louis and Marie. Please don't try to talk to anyone!" he begged, grabbing Prussia's hand like a child. He searched and searched near the edges of the room where they would be seated to greet, exchanging hasty 'Bonjour's whenever he had to. Finally, he saw them, and Prussia snorted behind him.

"What is that on her head? Is that a boat?"

"Shhhhhh!" France hissed, forgetting they couldn't understand each other. He led Prussia and Spain before the two of them, smiling amiably. " _Votre Majestées, les personnifications nationales des royaumes de la Prusse et l'Espagne_ ," France offered, bowing deeply. He stepped off to the side for them, and as Prussia practically rushed the two of them, France grabbed his arm, halting him. "Please don't embarrass me," he whispered. Of course in the next instant, he subconsciously made it his goal to completely mortify France. Spain edged past the two of them right when France let him go, and he and Prussia roughly bumped shoulders both trying to get to the king and queen. They both backed off quickly, expecting the other to go, and when they saw the other waiting, they both tried to go again at the same moment. They jostled again, bouncing off each other, and waited again for each other. Spain caved first, throwing his arms up and shaking his head furiously. He stepped back for Prussia and gestured elegantly for him to go, bowing slightly in his wake.

France sighed and rubbed his face exasperatedly, checking to see how many people were staring. Oh, good! It was only 20 or so. 40 less people than he thought.

As soon as Prussia had a clear path he continued his charge on France's monarchs. He removed his plumed military hat and set it down on the floor next to him as he knelt, then confidently grabbed Marie's hand. Breaching every rule of propriety and court conduct, he looked up at her and winked before offering his respects. " _Eure Majestät_ ," Prussia said loudly, loud enough to make her flinch. Either he didn't notice or he didn't care. He kissed her hand roughly and France could tell by the look in his eyes what he was thinking when he raised his head again.

"Oh God, please don't try to speak French."

" _C'est . . . trrress bonn-_ "

"Save me," he told Spain, grabbing him and throwing him towards Prussia. He quickly ran up behind him and grabbed Marie's hand from him.

"My turn," he said, staring at Prussia a second longer than he had to. He cocked his head towards Louis. " _Su Majestad_ ," he offered smoothly, kneeling and kissing her hand with much more poise. She smiled slightly, already being pulled into Spain's naturally magnetic personality.

France kept a close eye on Prussia while he moved to Louis, but he seemed to take Spain's hint. He toned down his bravado, kissing the Bourbon ring on Louis' finger with less fire. " _Eure Majestät_."

" _Merci_ ," Louis thanked, sending France a mildly agitated look over Prussia's head. France shrugged.

"Sorry," he mouthed to him. "Prussia and the court of Frédéric Guillaume II offer their well wishes, as does Spain and the court of Charles III."

"My Lord, thank you so much for entertaining the two of us at your glorious palace while we spend time with France," Spain said when he knelt in front of Louis. "As thanks, the Spanish court brings you a gift of two Andalusian horses, _Pura Raza Española_. Would you translate, please?" he asked France.

As France repeated Spain's message in French, Louis smiled and nodded regally in Spain's direction. He looked to Prussia next, obviously expecting another gift. Prussia's eyes widened and he took a step back. "What?" he asked France. "What does he want? I didn't get him anything."

"You didn't bring a gift?" Spain gasped.

"No, was I supposed to?"

"Oh, _Dios mío_ , didn't anyone explain court etiquette to you, _mano_?"

"Prussia does things differently, okay? We went over this! There's none of this ass-kissing stuff in my country! If you wanna show someone respect you just show them respect. Now that I think about it, Fritz rarely let anyone bow to him unless he wanted to embarrass them."

" _Tu es un militaire, la Prusse_?" Louis suddenly prompted.

France guessed he suspected the conversation taking a turn away from him. But he was relieved by Louis' engagement of Prussia. Talk to him about the military and he would talk all day. Civilly. France hoped. He translated Louis' question for him, "You're a military man, Prussia?", and his smile grew tremendously.

" _Ja, Majestät_. A General of the Prussian Royal Guard," he boasted.

Louis stared at France while he converted Prussia's answer, then nodded approvingly. " _Vous portez le blanc habituellement, non_?"

"He said, 'Don't you normally wear white?'"

" _Ja, Majestät_ , but I prefer to be on the front lines of battle when I can be. The Infantry General's uniform saves me the trouble."

" _Comment se porte sa Majesté Frédéric Guillaume II?_ "

"He asked how Frederick William II is."

"He's very well, thank you! He just received the funds and approval for a beautiful stone triumphal gate to replace the one from Brandenburg an der Havel to Berlin. Neoclassical architecture."

France translated, stumbling over the German names, but with Marie's help, Louis understood. " _C'est très bien, Monsieur. Merci, et amuse toi._ "

"He says thank you and have fun. Say thank you, and bow before we leave."

"I know, I know. I'm not a complete savage! _Danke schön_ ," Prussia spat as he bowed again to Louis. "Now was that so bad?" he smirked.

"Yes! Yes it was!" France yelled despairingly. He tried to joke with Prussia, but he couldn't maintain the straight face. Prussia lightly shoved his shoulder.

"You liar! You'll have to do better than that if you want to take the Sass Master title from me."

He grabbed a wine glass off the passing servant and took a loooong gulp, already expecting a fun night. His heart suddenly swelled with happy excitement.

"Ooooh, I'm so glad you two are here. I missed youuuu . . . " he trailed off, juggling his wine glass to wrap his arms around his two friends again. He released Prussia to wrap Spain in a choke hold.

"Agh! We missed you too, France!" He wormed out of France's grip and playfully smacked his shoulder. "We were really worried about you for a long time, and we're glad to see you so well," Spain said, smiling genuinely at him. Then he grew serious again. "Are you gonna tell us what's going on, now?"

"Mmmmm, no. Not yet."

"Oh, come on!" Prussia whined, throwing his arm roughly around France. "Why can't you tell us now?"

"Non, non, non!" he assured them. He ducked out from underneath him. "We're going to have a good time first. I'll tell you later, since it'll only kill the mood. Come on. Grab a drink."

"Yeah, Prussia! Grab a drink! You know what he said on the way here, France? He bet me that he couldn't get drunk on French wines because they're ' too dainty and frilly compared to rugged German hops beer'."

"Ex-CUSE you?"

"It's true!" he protested.

"50 livres. By the end of the night you'll be drunk off your ass! And damn the exchange rate. If you lose, you lose."

"Deal. 50 marks. Let's go to the card tables!"

"Noooo! I want to dance!" Spain whined. "I brought my castanets and everything!" He had the clam-like instruments out and around his thumbs in an instant, clacking them loudly.

" _Mon Dieu_ , put those away!" France reached for them. "You're determined to embarrass me!"

Spain jammed them behind his back, out of reach. Then he said something that completely shocked France. "You're no fun anymore, amigo!"

". . . What?"

"You're no fun anymore! I don't like this super serious France! Since when are you afraid of my dancing? Or Prussia's antics? Did you forget that's just how he is?" Crap. They knew. They saw through his façade of normalcy. It was fragile to begin with, but he was hoping they wouldn't pick up on how much he changed. He was hoping that with them being there, he could remember and regain some semblance of who he was before everything went to hell.

" . . . I'm not . . . Parties are political situations-"

"Maybe that's why you're so high-strung!" Prussia offered. "Parties should be parties!"

"You're being WORK you. This is a _fiesta_! Be YOU you!" He shot France a knowing look, smiling invitingly, then winked and clacked his castanets one last time before wading through the crowd like a shark in a wave. "Show me how the French dance!" he yelled over his shoulder. France smiled, and dutifully followed.

 

"I juz want you two to know . . . That you two'rr my bes friens. Okayyyy? Yu'rr my beeeees friens, and I luv both a' you motherfuckers . . . " Prussia slurred. He wrapped his arm around France's torso and nuzzled his face into his chest. His accent mixed with unformed words made him really hard to understand, and his slow comprehension took a minute to process the message Prussia was trying to get across.

As soon as he understood it, the gesture touched France's drunk heart so deeply, his eyes almost teared up. "Awwww! That is sooooooo nice, Prussia!" France said, hugging him back. "Yurr my best friend, too! But - wait wait wait - what about Gilbird?"

"He'd smoke you guys."

"Rude! Where is he?" He bumped his glass against Prussia's shoulder and it tumbled out of his hands onto the floor. "Whoops." For some reason, he knew that was bad, but he couldn't place why right then. He made horrified eye contact with Spain, but his face was all scrunched up and he was trying not to giggle and all it did was make France giggle and then the two of them were in hysterics.

"Din't come. He gets carriage sick, remember?"

"No," he answered honestly, shaking his head. France let go of Prussia and tried to bend over to pick it up, but then the floor shifted under his hand. He tipped from the couch and landed on the ground next to it.

 

 **_September 6, 1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_ **  
**_France's Drawing Room_ **

France couldn't move. France couldn't breathe. Tears streamed like waterfalls from his eyes, salty, undisciplined deluges down his cheeks. He convulsed uncontrollably, face curling up, chest heaving. Wanting desperately to take a breath; wishing desperately for his stomach to stop hurting. He couldn't. It wouldn't.

Prussia was just TOO FUNNY.

"By this point she's _pissed_ , yeah? - I mean, _steam's_ coming out of her ears, she's as red as a tomato. And there I am, just proud of myself for even holding on as long as I did! Cuz, you know, if these were normal circumstances I'd have already been spitting out a few of my teeth. Anyway, since I am the great Prussia, of course all that pride goes RIGHT to my head!" His hand shot up and pointed to his temples. "The awesome Me decidedes to seal the deal with an epic one-liner! A REAL kicker that's gonna shut her up, and just let her know I frickin' WON for once!" He paused for a sip of wine. "I had this particular one stocked for a while, just praying for a chance to use it sometime, and, as I'm sure you both know, fights with Hungary are the perfect times to test these things out, right? So I puff out my chest and say to her, 'Wow, Hungary! Are you always this stupid or are you making a special effort today?' She lets out this demon growl, like, 'RRRRAAAAUUUUGHHHH!', and I'm pretty sure that knocked me out, not the actual punch!"

France howled, doubled over, legs curled up under him on his chair. Spain fared no better next to him. On the floor in stitches.

"Next thing I know - BAM! - I'm on my ass seeing stars and she's STRADDLING me, her finger's in my face, she's SCREAMING at me!" He took a breath and imitated Hungary's angry growl voice perfectly. "'Don't you EVER say anything like that to me AGAIN, _te kis szaros_ -' She's so upset she can't even speak in the Common Language and I just about pissed myself right there! And that is the last time I ever say anything like that to Hungary again!" Prussia bellowed over the two of them, swirling his wine inside his glass. He arrogantly cocked a silver eyebrow for dramatic effect, attempting to be stoic in the wake of their fits, but eventually he lost a battle with a wide grin that forced its way through his façade. " _Pfffffft-kesesesese!_ " He dropped his gaze to his lap and let his own raspy chortles join with their laughs.

Over and over and over, France watched the mental image until it could play out behind his eyelids on its own like it was recorded. He wanted to savor every detail like a dessert; he never wanted to stop laughing. It only seemed to get funnier each time - the reconstruction of Hungary's expression as Prussia described it, the exact tone of his voice as he told her off. Each repeat deepened his laughs more and more until they rolled from his stomach to his chest. They fell silent, forcing him to ride out the storm until the spell of laughter was over. The second he could, he sucked in a huge, calming, much needed breath. . . only to dissolve into another trembling puddle of cackles.

How good it felt to laugh, actually laugh again, he thought. His heart instantly filled up with contentment at the thought of it. This was the sort of euphoria, the sort of unparalleled glee he coveted wistfully since 1774. The sort of positive emotion he lacked since . . . he couldn't even remember. He couldn't remember the last time he laughed this hard.

God, it just felt so liberating. Fulfilling.

" _This is so nice,_ " he thought dumbly. " _Laughing with my friends._ " People cared about him. For the first time in a while he saw it. They cared. Spain, in all his pleasantries and slap-happiness, cared. France looked closely, hyper-aware of the round, smiley, sun-tanned face and the smile lines that made him look friendly, optimistic, and playful. Contradicted subtly by the dense burden of wisdom. He exuded appreciation and happiness and enthusiasm, made everyone around him delighted and excited about life. Carefree, peaceful, light-hearted Spain. Eyes relaxed and closed softly despite the ferocity of his laughter. Hyper-aware of Prussia's pale face, sharp features. Eyes chock-full of youthful wonder, but occasionally, France could see something more. Something fierce. A glint, or a grin could instantly turn him into a primal being, a bloodthirsty animal. When he laughed his face seemed to scrunch up, eyes squeezed shut, mouth completely open to let his howls escape.

His heart swelled with pride. Gratitude. They came when he needed them, whether he knew he needed them or not. He thanked God for it.

As France gradually calmed down to the occasional hiccup, he wiped at his eyes and took a large sip of wine. If Prussia's story was this funny as a story. . . he only wished he could've been there too, laughing with them. Laughing at them, in this case. A burst of regret spattered his chest like paint, crushing his good mood like a bug. Thinking about all these moments, all this damned fun he missed out on - by personal choice - made his heart and stomach sick with guilt and remorse. Sure, Nations had millennia to spare, and he could make up for it, but he couldn't take back what had already happened in his absence. He couldn't go back, steal the vibrant color from their world, hastily color his own grey world, and pretend he was colorful the whole time.

He had more than enough opportunities to color his grey, dreary world with them. He could've wrung out every last drop of solace and relief from all his friends. But he didn't. No, no, he shut himself away for a decade. He wanted to be miserable, whether he realized it or not. He brought it on himself so completely; he played the part of the victim so well, moping around until he fooled himself.

His smile was all-but gone. Damn it! He quickly made a conscious mental effort to banish all the analytical thoughts away from his mind and simply enjoy his time with them. He would start rebuilding right now.

Spain and Prussia's residual snorts and snickers eventually quieted down as well, and when Spain peeled himself from the floor to crawl back to his seat France decided to tease him. He made a show of looking Spain up and down, pursing his lips. Spain wore a light green jacket that matched his vibrant green eyes well, but the jacket was speckled with a light blue latticed design that barely went together at all. His beige trousers were even more of a bland and modest juxtaposition against the boastful jacket. White socks, white cravat, black shoes.

"What?"

"You're a mess, _l'Espagne_! What's with that gaudy outfit? Who told you a mint green jacket and beige trousers was a good idea?" He leaned over and tugged at the thick, bright green sleeves. "Well, I guess it's silk, so it is nice. But the colors are all wrong! And look at the 's' cut of his jacket, Prussia. Completely unflattering to his manly figure! He needs more of a flared, well-rounded 'c'."

Prussia cackled. "Yeah, you should've worn your military uniform, not that ugly thing! Women go nuts for men in uniform," he said, gesturing elegantly to his own. Pressed, pristine, deep blue jacket lined with red on the inside, white pants, a white German Lampasse like a sash across his chest to show his rank. He had the white shoulder plates and little tassels trailing off of them - France couldn't think of the word for them - and a single line of silver buttons. A proper Infantry General's uniform, complete with the Iron Cross amidst other symbols on the left side of his chest. The only thing he lacked was his tall, plumed shako, which he left by the door on his way in. "Look at mine. Sexy, right? Much sexier than a Spanish one, but yours would do. They'd probably fall all over you if you wore those thigh high boots you guys wear."

"They're only knee high-"

"And those tight Spanish pants over your firm Spanish butt," France injected. He added cooly, "Considering you're the booty, I'm the beauty, and Prussia's the brute-y."

"What?!" Prussia roared.

"I told you never to say that again!" Spain whined, lightly shoving France. He huffed and defended himself. "My butt is beautiful by itself, thank you very much! I don't need tight pants."

"You have to admit, the tight pants help. It's looking rather firm today."

"You're darn right, it is!"

"No, wait, what?" Prussia prompted. Spain and France's leveled their gazes in direct eye contact and they made a unanimous decision.

"We'll tell you later," Spain promised, changing the subject. "By the way, your Prussian uniform's material is imported from Spain, _idiota_! Spanish Merino sheep wool. Who designed that thing, anyway?"

"Watch it," warned France. "It's based on French style."

"It's stupid! I don't even know what to look at on him! Blue jacket and red collar? Whose idea was it to get white pants? They'll look filthy after one battle! And the long-tassel-needle-thing's only on one side!"

"It's an aiguillette-" France muttered.

"It's to leave room on the other side for all. my. medals," he enunciated slowly. "I look damn good in this uniform. Just you wait. I guarantee if we go to a tavern tonight and we both hit on the same girl, I'd still go home with her, even if I'm Prussian!"

France barked out a laugh. "French women would never settle on a Prussian when there's a Spaniard and a Frenchman of respectively equal and higher attractiveness in the room. So for the record I'd go home with her, because I'm the most handsome." He paused, and as an afterthought added, "And French," pinching Spain's cheeks.

He swatted France's hand away and turned it into a dismissive wave. "Okay, back to the clothes, jerks! I needed some new clothes for this _fiesta_ , okay? And it's Spanish style! Our jackets- don't laugh at me!" he interrupted when a grin split France's cheeks. "Romano liked it!"

"Romano _liked_ something?" France teased.

Spain paused and his face fell, like he wanted to defend Romano for a second. Instead an amused grin snuck back up his face, and he turned away to hide it. "That wasn't very nice, _Francia_." Gloating, France stared straight at him as he sipped his wine again.

"You took _Romano_ along with you? Clothes shopping? How did that work?" Prussia blurted out. "Knowing Romano he probably just insulted you the whole time!"

Spain held up a finger to stop him. "Actually, I got a compliment!"

France gasped into his glass of wine mid-sip, nearly spitting it all out. He felt flecks of it fly down his windpipe, and managed to choke the rest of it down before the coughing fit overtook him. "W-what?" he sputtered.

" _Sí, sí_ , he complimented me! Here's how that went: I was only looking for a jacket. When I picked out this fabric it looked really expensive and soft and nice, and Romano liked it too. He said it would bring out my eyes. Side-note: it does! So a few days later I got the letter from the tailor saying my jacket was ready. I invited him to go with me for my second opinion since he helped me pick it out, and I tried it on. It fit me really well, and the colors looked really good, and I knew I looked really good and so I just asked Romano, 'How do I look?'"

"And?" Prussia prompted eagerly, nearly on the edge of his seat.

"His face got all red, and he got all embarrassed - you know how he is. All he said was, 'You look really good,' but for Romano, that's enough. My heart got all excited, and my chest swelled all up with pride, and I just wanted to scoop him up and hug him for finally being nice to me. But before I could even thank him he spits out, 'Too bad-a it takes a shit ton of make up and-a fancy clothes, _bastardo_.'"

All three of them lost it at Spain's off-kilter impersonation of Romano's dark, thick accent.

France doubled over again as another round of hysterics aggravated his aching stomach pains. The mental image of Romano's embarrassed face spouting verbal abuses was the pièce de résistance. Incapacitated mid-levity, he watched helplessly as Prussia tossed his head back and completely disregarded the glass in his hand. Incapable of reaction or care when wine sloshed over the side and onto the carpet.

" _Scheiße_! S-sorry!" he stammered between gulps of air.

France shook his head and waved dismissively.

"S-so then - Hahahahaha! - So then d-do you know what I t-told him?" Spain sputtered, wiping his tears away.

" _Hon, honhonhon_ . . . What?" France asked as soon as he mildly recovered.

"I told him - He. HehehehehahahaHAHAHAHA!" He couldn't even finish his story he was laughing so hard. His giggles echoed loudly in France's drawing room, filling the space and infecting Prussia and France until they both bent over clutching their stomachs again. Spain recovered first. "I told him, 'I like your clothes, Romano! That's a nice shade of mega jerk-face on you!' HAHAHAHA! He- h- he p-pun- _Fusososo_! He punch-ch-ch- _Dios mío_! He punched me in the face!"

France leaned forward so far he nose-dived from his chair and face-planted on the floor. "HAHAHAHAHAHA-I can't! I c- . . . I can't!" he pleaded. " _Honhonhon_ heheheHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

He wasn't sure how long it took all three of them to calm down. He lost track of the time, rolling around on the carpet. At some point he rolled near Prussia's chair and felt a burst of something wet on his back. Startled into alertness, he quickly rolled to a sitting position and craned his neck backwards over his shoulder, but he couldn't see what was wrong. His immediate thought was that he broke the scab open under his bandages, or bled through them, but as he shrugged his coat off and inspected the stain he realized that he rolled in Prussia's spilled wine and wound up with a huge, red stain all over his jacket.

He chanced a glance at Spain and Prussia, but they both seemed too absorbed in their elation to have noticed his momentary panic. He ran a relieved hand through his hair and naturally relapsed into his own fit of giggles as he listened to the hilarity of theirs. He sloppily peeled himself from the floor and staggered, still giggling, into his bedroom and to his armoire to get a change of clothes.

"Wh- where'd you go, _amigo_?" Spain yelled.

"I rolled in the wine that clumsy idiot Prussia spilled!" he joked.

" _Fick dich!_ " reached him from the other room. France didn't know a lot of German, but he knew enough to get Prussia's message.

France sprinted over to the doorway and poked his head in, smiling and winking coyly at Prussia. "Maybe later, _mon amour_. The night is still young. We'll have time for that when we're done spending time with Spain, don't worry. Here." He tossed his soiled jacket to Prussia, and he caught it in his fist.

"What?"

"Use that to mop up the rest of the wine."

Prussia's smirk dropped like he was slapped, and he shot France an odd look, narrowing his eyes and even cocking his head to the side almost skeptically. "Are you serious?"

France hesitated, unsure of where it came from or how to interpret it. " . . . Yes?" He looked again, closer the next time, but by the time he scrutinized his face, Prussia recovered well. He smirked again, gently touching two fingers to his forehead in a weak salute before bending over in his chair to tend to the stain. France decided to take it as a frown of disdain at cleaning up his own mess. "You're a big boy, _la Prusse_ , you can clean it up." He turned back to his room to rummage through his drawers and closet to find another jacket.

He couldn't focus on anything but that weird glance. Prussia's completely . . . France didn't know . . . horrified? His utterly confused look? Whatever it was that he sent France's way took him completely off-guard. It wormed its way into his mind, and he tried to picture it again, to maybe try to reinterpret and find the emotion and meaning behind it. But it was just so odd. It actually vaguely frustrated him. He sighed exasperatedly and thought about what he could've said that Prussia deemed so out of character? What did he say that so offended Prussia?

As he rolled his shoulders pulling off his shirt, he felt the bandages shift. They pulled at the dried blood and tore a layer away from his half-scabbed skin, an audible pop in his skin. He froze, but it was too late. His cut burned like someone slapped it as hard as they could. He bit back a scream, using every ounce of his willpower not to utter a single syllable. He wouldn't, he would not ruin this good time by making them fret and fuss over him. (No, he realized later, he would ruin it every other way possible.) Once he was able to slip his new shirt over his shoulder he tuned back in to Spain and Prussia.

He heard them talking, he heard the murmur of their voices. The sharp 's' sounds. The 't's. He swore he heard 'France', too. He padded over to the door frame and leaned just out of their view, listening in as well as he could. They were talking about him. They had to be. He couldn't pick up their conversation but his hackles rose. Shudders went up and down his spine, to the chagrin of his freshly-irritated back. He grew instantly jittery, instantly defensive, and he just knew.

A sudden surge of outrage, a twisted cocktail of embarrassment and rage, bubbled up in his heart like a spark on tinder, tumbling straight down his spine and into his nerves. He felt like the butt of a joke that everyone was in on but him. The subject of their ridicule. They wanted to talk about him? In his own Palace? In his own room? Nooooo way! Did they think he was stupid? Did they think he was just some idiot they could make fun of?

His heart burst into flames inside his chest. His fists balled by themselves, and a snarl he had to bite back curled up his lip. He had no idea where this indignation came from, but he didn't care. It rose in his cheeks, rose in his skin, like feverish bugs crawling. Crawling, itching, scratching, biting. In his fingers, in his neck, in his temples, in his stomach, in his chest. Shadows of their laughter, ghosts and manifestations of his mortification moved with labyrinthine finesse, writhing at the edges of his awareness, but constantly skirting his peripheral when he tried to capture them. To validate himself and his paranoia.

Like flipping a switch, he remembered the source. Those who were plunging the knife into his back as he stood there wondering.

His legs rocketed him back into the room. He stormed back in, and his temper took control of his tongue. He spat the violent words straight from his heart before he could filter them. "If you have something to say," he hissed, "it can be said here." Unsure of where they came from, but unwilling to stop them for the sake of his dignity.

Spain and Prussia acted like they didn't know what he was talking about. Their eyebrows furrowed simultaneously in confusion and they glanced at each other. Now they wanted to lie to him? He gave them three seconds to answer, standing in front of Prussia like a mother about to discipline their kid. "Don't act like you weren't just talking about me!"

"What do you mean?" Prussia muttered.

France could feel his aura begin to surge with fury. A low growl rumbled in his throat. He swatted the glass out of Prussia's hand and held eye contact, even as it shattered against the wall and rained wine and shards of glass across the floor. "Don't lie to me!"

"France!" Spain gasped.

"What the heck was that?" Prussia yelled back, hurdling to his feet. He glared at France with almost as much malice. With that dangerous, primal glint in his eyes. Threatened, defensive, and not backing away. But France wanted to win. Had to win. He glared right back, artificially creating a powerful, nearly tangible glint in his own eyes that he grew all-too familiar with lately. The daunting, antiquated essence of dominance and pure, unadulterated personal intimidation. Electricity charged in his eyes, sparked in them, jumped from his eyes to Prussia's. Both fighting without a single utterance to alarm the other into submission. Even though Prussia was slightly taller than him, France narrowed his eyes and inclined his head when Prussia bore down on him, nearly touching chests. "What's the matter with you? Huh? _Frankreich_?" His eyes flared. Another edge over him.

France almost backed down. He almost bowed out, feeling like he was drawing even with Prussia, not drawing ahead. He realized there was no way a Nation would intimidate another Nation like they would a human (let alone a powerhouse like Prussia). They were far too familiar with each other, their nuances. They all burned with the same fire. They'd seen these looks thousands of times over, they all knew how to replicate them. They weren't anything special to Nations. Only humans.

Suddenly, Spain's hand was on his chest, saving him the shame. He chuckled awkwardly. "Guys, let's calm down . . . please . . ." He applied steady pressure until they both were a few feet apart on either side of him.

"You've changed," Prussia finally admitted, never removing his crimson eyes from France's cerulean. "You know that? You're . . . Your air's different. You're more arrogant. You carry yourself like you're being attacked all the time. Like you're trying to protect yourself with your ego, or bad confidence, or something. You're pretending it doesn't bother you and you think you have the two of us fooled, don't you?"

Whether or not it was rhetorical France declined to answer.

"I couldn't quite put my finger on it earlier when we were just talking, but now I think I know." He paused, clearly waiting for France to ask him to elaborate. He refused to oblige.

"I don't know what you mean." He truly didn't. Prussia's statement was so broad . . . Of course he changed. Constant, perpetual states of stress do that to people. He changed in many ways.

He was under attack. On all sides, on all fronts, by all people - even his public. He was trying to defend himself.

Louis was a long-term, chronic illness that wore away at his willpower until, for just a moment, he was ready to give up. Just curl up and welcome Fate and Death.

The people were a physical abuse. Each looting or riot or "caucus" was like a knife stabbing deeper into his cut, carving into his flesh. Punching him in the stomach until he grew sick. Squeezing his chest and heart until he gasped for air, choking him tighter and tighter.

The other Nations provided the emotional attacks. Writing nasty (and even nice) letters. Showing up at his door (though he appreciated it, if you could get him to admit it). Forcing him to realize how silly he was being, and how stupid he was for being unwilling to change.

He was his own psychological abuser. For giving in, for allowing them to believe that all of them were right. That he was in the wrong and everything was his fault and he deserved all of it.

He used to be a push-over. He used to let Louis, Marie, and Parliament walk all over him. Not anymore. He learned how to assert himself. How to use his aura liberally. He learned how to intimidate. Maybe he was a little wild with it, using it when he didn't necessarily have to, but if it got him what he wanted, who cared? He was too desperate anymore.

He used to mope and be miserable. He used to wallow in his misery before the people raided his home. He used to blindly accept every misfortune that came his way. Not anymore. He took control now. He worked around problems, he worked to change his situation for the better, through any means necessary. Even if those means were violent or unorthodox.

He used to be France. He didn't know what he was anymore. And he couldn't even project what he could be. The people were starting to wrest control from him, and he knew it. He was just scared to admit it, if he was being honest. He told himself that he was doing well, that doing his best on the monarch's end of things was enough. But deep down he knew. In the deepest, darkest recesses of his heart that he dare not call upon, he knew. He knew he was delaying the inevitable. Whether he denied it or not he was still forced to sit on edge, and wait for someone's next move.

He didn't even get to this new, random sort of fury that began to spring up recently, but did he need to talk about it? To Prussia? No.

Of course he changed.

"Okay, and also," he continued, assuming France was simply skirting him. Oh wait, he was. "The old France would never be okay with ruining clothes." He held up the offending article, pinched between two fingers like it carried a new, brutal pestilence. France laughed at the very hilarity of Prussia's explanation. God, it was so much deeper than that! And if that was all they saw . . . It was as if they came for nothing.

"Excuse me for having my priorities straightened out. The hard way," he reminded him, gesturing to his back. "You honestly think clothes are my first thought when I've got this reminder of everything bigger that's on the verge of collapse?"

"Oh, do you think about that? That's very mature of you, considering the little baby tantrum you just threw. All you told me is you've become an insecure, whiny little bitch since we last saw you. That Louis' doing? Austria told us he's a little bitch, too. Is he turning you into a pansy?"

"Prussia, you know his circumstance could be making him volatile-"

"Shut up, Spain! I don't need you analyzing me! As if you actually know what's going on!" Prussia was trying to goad France into a fight. A fight, or a confession of what Louis was really like. Well played, Prussia. France could tell the battlefield prowess carried with him to verbal sparring. He knew how to strategize, implement, change and reimplement at a moment's notice. "But I won't give in," his - indeed childlike - defiance declared. Despite their purpose for being there being his indulgence, he refused to tell them on Prussia's terms. He visibly clamped his mouth shut.

"Then tell us, _amigo_. This isn't like you, honestly. Are the people's emotions bleeding into you? That's not good. They must be really really unhappy." France didn't change the emotion in his eyes, and neither did Prussia. "Please, we're only trying to help, _mano_."

"..."

" _Tch!_ " Prussia suddenly smirked, backing away from their face off. "Okay. Okay, fine. Still don't want to tell us what's going on? Still don't trust us or something? Fine. But don't expect help from me when you're in the middle of a crisis."

"Prussia!" Spain shouted.

"Because contrary to what you believe, you are not the center of my universe. I was willing to drop everything for you this time, and you don't want to take the help I'm offering. Fine. Just don't expect any more when your country tears itself apart from the inside out. From what Austria says, you'll be there soon."

"Prussia, stop it-"

"No, no, it's okay!" France snapped. "I didn't need you during the Seven Years' War when you were on Britain's side, and I don't need you now! I wouldn't expect anything from the Prussian military anyway now that Frederick II's been dead for a year now."

He struck a chord at the mention of Prussia's former ruler. The man who over the course of 46 years literally gave Prussia everything. Established borders, more territory, military power, music, art, philosophy, sciences, culture. The Prussian Louis XIV. Frederick the Great. France imagined himself plunging his own painful knife into Prussia's back. Prussia was extremely close to him. Much closer than Nations normally grew to their leaders. "You better not say a _word_ against Old Fritz. . . " he growled. His eyes flared, he challenged France, dared him, and he rose to the challenge without a second thought.

France waved dismissively. Despite how much he wanted to hurt Prussia, Fritz wasn't the target. He could still insult him, though. Twist the knife. "I don't have anything bad to say about a GERMAN man who didn't even like the GERMAN language! What is it he wrote in? Spoke in? French? Maybe a little Italian? Did he speak Spanish?" France slightly raised the pitch of each question as if they were some of life's greatest.

"Shut up."

"Well Fritz is dead now. How's Frederick Wilhelm II treating you, hm? I hear Prussian finances are almost as bad as France's right now! Is it true your military's dwindling?" There. Talk about how un-awesome Prussia was at the moment and it'd take him a long time to cool off. "Even my pansy ruler Louis' talking about him. What is it Old Fritz wrote about him? 'He's of an easy-going and pleasure-loving disposition, averse to sustained effort of any kind, and sensual by nature?' So, lazy? Self-indulgent? I can't wait to see what he does to the once-great _Preußen_."

Prussia opened his mouth to fight back but Spain yelled before he could. "Okay, stop it! Both of you!"

France wasn't done. He withdrew his metaphorical knife and stabbed it down again into his other shoulder blade. "Give it two years. All the territories Fritz conquered and assimilated into Prussia will break off, or be re-taken. Your finances will completely fail - and I mean COMPLETELY. Your grand army will fall, your people will lose faith. In two years you'll be ruined. That's how long it took me to start crumbling. Can you feel yourself weakening already? Your military? Internal affairs? Can you feel yourself slipping through his fingers? As I've had to? Just wait. You'll get a front row seat to your own demise. Fritz and all his policies are dead. It's only a matter of time until you are, too-"

Prussia lunged at him so quickly France couldn't react. He grabbed two fistfuls of France's jacket and twisted, hauling him forward, already spewing German at him. " _Was zum Teufel hast du gerade gesagt, du kleiner Scheißer_?! Huh?!"

He shocked all the bravado right out of France. Panic replaced it instead. Sheer, fearing-for-his-life, panic. He grabbed Prussia's wrists and desperately tried to dislodge them from his coat, but they were locked in. Prussia shook him once, rattling his brain in his head. A blue blur raised behind Prussia's head, and France flinched, knowing it was his fist.

" _Du solltest besser halt deinen gottverdammten Mund!_ " The last word cracked. France looked into his face and realized he growled it.

He saw it again. He saw that dangerous glint in Prussia's red eyes. Narrowed and creased in a curled snarl, but wide with unbridled rage. Like a feral animal. Poised to attack. It froze France completely. Froze his chest, froze his eyes, froze his mind, froze everything but his pounding heart. Caught in a fog of horror, not daring to move, not daring to breathe in the wake of this feral monster. Every pretense of his fire and challenge gone, he locked eyes with Spain over Prussia's shoulder, and whatever desperation was there, whatever terror was there seemed to break him of his shock and galvanize him into action. He snatched Prussia's arm and locked elbows, wrapping his other arm around his torso.

" _¡Calma, Prusia!_ " Spain yelled. He heaved Prussia back and France twisted away, backpedaling to safety against the wall.

He spun around, instantly on guard in case Spain couldn't hold him. Which was a possibility. He thrashed wildly, legs bucking and kicking at the air. He threw elbows and sloppy punches left and right. Spain suddenly ducked, dodging a near shot to his temple, and Prussia slipped from his grip, charging France for a second attempt at him. Luckily, Spain recovered and dove on his back. He wrapped his arms around him, pinning his arms to his side. Prussia jerked and Spain grunted with the effort, then finally managed to clasp his hands in a tight hold.

As soon as he had Prussia under control, France saw the shock in Spain's eyes turn to sharp, cold determination. His lips pursed tightly; he lowered Prussia and forced his legs to the ground, then in one smooth, calculated motion he kicked his leg up and wrapped it around Prussia's thigh. With his other he kicked the back of Prussia's knees, pulling on his shoulder with all of his weight. He spun Prussia around on his collapse and the two landed with a THUMP! Spain clamored on top, forcing all of his weight onto Prussia's back to hold him there.

A perfect, practiced take-down.

" _¡Prusia, calma!_ " he hissed again. Prussia didn't hear, too blinded by the cloud of anger. He dug his knee into Prussia's back until he froze, squeaking in pain. " _Prusia, calma,_ " he threatened, almost whispering it. " _Prusia . . ._ " Prussia blinked as though he was confused. Somehow, Spain's quiet tone was almost more threatening than his yelling. " _Calma._ "

He fought again weakly, " _Aber er_ -"

Spain pushed him harder into the floor. " _¡Cierra la boca!_ " he screamed. Prussia jumped, staring open-mouthed at Spain. France wasn't sure either of them understood a word the other said, but they could understand each others' eyes. Prussia seemed to calm down instantly, slumping against the floor.

France dusted himself off, embarrassed by his obvious display of fear when confronted. The second he met opposition, his so-called power collapsed in on him. He made a fool of himself, and he knew it. He hated it. And seeing Prussia there on the floor, vulnerable, defeated, in a more embarrassing position than he was in, something abhorring and unnatural sprung up inside of him. He had to rub it in. He had to make Prussia feel worse than he did.

He smirked down at him. " _Je ne parle pas Allemande, connard_ -"

"FRANCE, SHUT UP! Whatever you said, just SHUT UP! Are you calm?" he prompted, looking down at Prussia.

"Only if he shuts his mouth-"

"ARE YOU CALM, PRUSSIA?"

" . . . _Ja,"_ he eventually conceded. Spain relinquished him, first standing by himself and helping Prussia up. As soon as he was upright he gingerly rubbed his neck where Spain knelt on him, glaring at France. "You know, I think it's time we go, Spain."

"Why?" France spat before he could bite his tongue. "You can dish it out, but you can't take it?"

"Are you SERIOUS-" Prussia yelled. He squared his shoulders to France and Spain took a cautionary step in front of them, just in case tensions snapped again. "MOVE!" he yelled, throwing Spain aside. He pointed violently at France. "You better learn to control the discontent you've got going on in France right now, man. Cuz whatever you do, you're doing it on your own. I just decided: I don't CARE anymore. Let's go, Spain.

"Prussia-"

"He's not gonna talk to us. He cries and cries for attention, he begs for help-"

France scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I never even _asked_ -"

"You don't have to! We've been around long enough to know the signs when we see them! And whether you knew it or not you begged. Everything about your behavior towards us, your best friends, begged to be investigated. So yeah, you did beg. And I'm not gonna let you treat us like garbage when we're the ones who answered your call. He doesn't care, Spain. So I won't care. He's not France anymore, why should I? I refuse to walk around this stupid ass palace without my friend. I'd rather go home."

He turned away and strode purposefully towards the door, and France's pride defiantly watched him go. As if he was watching all of this transpire from someone else's point of view, and his negativity had taken over. Spain gave him a sorry look that burrowed deep in his heart like a worm. " _Adiòs_ , _Francia_. I hope things get better." He followed Prussia, and France's pride stood his ground until they disappeared around the door frame.

 _" _No! I am France, I promise__ ," he thought to himself. Although he wasn't sure if he believed it, either. His violence towards them was too telling that something wasn't right with him anymore.

Every time he told himself he reached the end of his rope, or his last chance, or his last opportunity, or his last something, there always seemed to be more. For some lucky reason, a door would open up. A new approach, a new idea, new motivation from Louis. He always managed to create something out of nothing, more often than not by sheer luck.

But watching Spain and Prussia walk out, watching all the relief he felt, all the emotional comfort, all the help he could've received literally walk out on him, something snapped. He expelled the rest of his anger. He regained control. He ran after them. Sprinted to the corridor, locked eyes on all the doors that they could've left through. But for the life of him, he couldn't even remember where their rooms were in relation to his. He let out a growl of despair.

"Wait! Wait, please!" he called to the air, unsure of where they were. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, guys! Please don't leave me! Don't leave me here all alone again! _La Prusse_ , _l'Espagne_ , come back. I didn't mean it, I promise! I didn't mean it, I didn't, I didn't, I didn't!" His cries echoed off the high, open ceilings, and he heard how desperate he sounded. He should've been embarrassed, but he wasn't. He needed them there, needed them, or he was sure he would descend into madness.

 

 

 **_September 8, 1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles_ **  
**_Grounds, Unknown Location_ **

The chilling wind blew gently through the trees, and they whispered their petty gossip on every side of them. The crickets screamed at each other. Wet and dry leaves rustled around them, crunching and padding their horses' treads on the barely-beaten path. France hastily gathered his jacket around him but he was too late. The wind reached him, cutting right through all his layers. Spain felt it too.

"France, I'm cold! Where are we going?"

"To one of my favorite places in the Versailles countryside. You won't regret it. I promise."

"Are you sure?" Prussia grumbled to Spain. "He could murder us out here and no one would know."

They lapsed into silence again as they walked, all three huddling their horses just a little closer to ward off the creeping chill. Good thing he knew where he was going, his intrusive thoughts interrupted suddenly. He could get them lost in the cold woods and nobody could find them. And then if they got that desperate they'd have to eat someone. Probably Spain. His butt alone could feed four people. His horse snorted loudly underneath him, and he returned from his thoughts to gently pat its neck.

They reached a small clearing, the night sky unfolding suddenly above them through the boughs of the trees. Stars peppered every visible inch of sky, hues of blues, blacks, purples, greys, all slathered together on God's canvas. The moon's pale light outlined a small ring of clouds around it, like they had cleared perfectly just for that night. Just for them to see it. Near the center of the clearing was a small, nondescript wooden gazebo, complete with a fire pit and swings to sit.

"Wow, this is beautiful, France!" Spain said. "Did you build this all the way out here?"

"I didn't build it, no. Versailles was supposed to be a hunting lodge for Louis XIV, I don't know if you knew." France dismounted and when the other two followed, he led his horse over to one of the posts, tethering him there. "Well, he spent so much time here, and in so much less seclusion than he wanted, that it became the de facto capital of France. He still wanted his peace, though, so he had this built when the Palace started to get over crowded." The flint and tinder was still next to the stone fire pit, and he grabbed wood from the stack and had a fire burning strongly within minutes. "The two of us used to sit out here when we wanted to be alone. I've been coming here ever since. I used to come here all the time, but for a while I was too . . . I stopped."

Prussia and Spain found seats one of the many swings, but France sat across from them on the floor, close to the fire for warmth.

"Okay," he sighed, patting his thighs. "Okay! So . . . 1778 was right when things started to go wrong. I got a letter from America asking me for assistance in closing out the Revolution - which, if I may add, was a DELIGHT to watch from the sidelines. Britain was losing his grip on my former colonies town by town and the biggest army in the world was running around like chickens with their heads cut off trying to reorganize and redeploy. Anyway," he said, smiling at the memory of it. Though he never saw Britain in person during that time while he fought in the colonies, the mental picture of his perpetually furrowed eyebrows was just as good. "I had already been sending supplies to America in secret since 1775, but when that letter came asking for a more concrete commitment, it immediately appealed to Louis. For some reason.

"I said no right away. I was already on edge. Because as soon as Louis assumed the throne in 1774, him and Marie started spending like crazy. I tried to talk him out of aiding America, but Parliament bolstered his confidence. 'Oh it'll gain us an ally! If we get a foothold in America, we could potentially retake the land! It'll be a tally against Britain on the scoreboard, blah blah blah!' Absolutely ridiculous! He practically threw the money at America." He poked the fire, glad for the distraction of his eyes so he didn't have to hold eye contact with them. With their faces full of pity. He didn't want pity anymore. Already wasted too much of it on himself.

"Our debt was substantial - a billion livres. But rather than divert some of the crown's income towards the debt, Louis and Marie took out loan after loan after loan. Didn't bother curbing any spending of their own. They grew up rich. How would they know, I guess?" he said, putting himself in their shoes for a moment. Would he have changed his lifestyle? France the Nation inside of him was saying absolutely. But that France was also supernaturally tied to every single aspect of everything French. He had to pretend he wasn't a Nation for a moment. He questioned himself again and still said absolutely, he would have changed, but a twinge at his heart suggested he wasn't as sure as he thought. Saying absolutely at that point was tainted. He was too biased to make that guess, and he knew it.

"Them being noble doesn't excuse everything they've done," Spain offered. "They were pretty stupid for not thinking ahead."

"They didn't think at all!" Prussia snorted. "You think a perceptive ruler with good foresight would've kept doing what they were doing? Especially after their Nation told them to cut it down? That's plain selfishness right there. Monarchs should make sacrifices for their country. And sorry for bringing it up, but Fritz-"

"Please don't," France said. "I met Fritz, okay? I wished jealously for almost 50 years that I could have a ruler like him. But I couldn't even entertain thoughts of that under the last two Louis'. I would've lost it a lot sooner than I did, and I wasn't mentally ready yet. At that point I still had some sort of fighting spirit left in me."

Prussia was silent, and France knew he burst his bubble. He kept his eyes on the licking flames and continued. "Sorry. Just . . . Anyway, all that debt, no one at Versailles helping. I pushed for a larger taxing of the Second Estate with him. But of course, that met it's end at Parliament. I pushed and pushed and pushed other things, too. I didn't even know why some of them would help, I just knew they would help. I sort of started . . . I don't know . . . I got angrier and angrier with each rejection until I got . . . sad and stopped trying altogether. I just gave up, decided to let Fate have its way with me. Until I snapped at a party once. Although, I wouldn't call it snapping, so much as doing whatever the hell I wanted for once. Louis kicked me out of the palace in 1781."

"That's about when I started noticing that our consistent letters went down to none. None at all."

France nodded. "I went home to Paris, but being much closer to the turmoil didn't do anything for me. I really don't wanna talk about it, but-"

"No, tell us. It's important," Spain assured him.

"It just felt like a four year long flu. That's all. Those years are all a blur, and I don't remember many fine details. Louis wrote me constantly, but I refused to answer. At first because of defiance. I wanted an apology. I didn't get one right away and swore I wouldn't answer until I did. I burned every letter from him that came my way. But then after a while I was too sick to even attempt to answer, even if I wanted to. By that time I guess word had spread around National Europe that I wasn't answering anyone. More letters started coming. From you two, America, Canada, and one particularly funny one from Austria, but I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't feel like talking to anyone. I was too sick, and had no motivation to do anything about it. I hated it.

"I decided, after a letter from America, to do something about it in 1785. I wasn't sure what to do, so I took a wild stab in the dark and started passing out food to the people who were starving, and doing other things around Paris. And for a while I felt better! But then in 1786, I had a regression that was really, really bad. I told Austria, so he probably told you."

"Is that the thing with the people coming into your house? He didn't mention a lot of details."

"You want me to elaborate?"

"Uuuuh, _ja!_ "

"Okay, so because of the failed harvests, the price of bread and flour sky-rocketed. Bread is everything to French people, next to wine. I mean everything. It's an every meal thing. The cost was felt immediately. The normal person couldn't afford either anymore, and they started looting homes, bakeries, taverns, anywhere and everywhere there could be an ounce of bread. People thought to be hoarding it were lynched on the spot. It was complete chaos. When word spread that a nobleman was passing out bread to the poor, it attracted some unwanted attention. A group of 4 or 5 looters followed me home one night and broke in. I woke up to the sounds of them scratching at the door, but I wasn't anywhere close to my gun. I grabbed the fire poker instead and tried to creep past the door to get to the cellar where I left it, but they saw me. They broke a window and climbed in and chased me through the dining room. I almost got to the cellar. I had my legs on the ladder. But they caught me. Pulled me back up. We struggled briefly, but one of them shot me in the leg. They shot me in the back of the head while I was on the ground. Next thing I knew I woke up on the floor where they left me and my house was trashed. They stole all my flour, stole everything. I mean everything. Maps, busts, old guns, everything historical in my house."

" _Dios mío, Francia_. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay now, I mean, I'm done crying about it," he chuckled dryly. "Luckily that chest in my room survived. It basically has all the really important stuff. Jeanne's things and treaties and stuff. After that, in my desperation, I started asking questions. The kind of existential questions Nations just shouldn't ask. I started entertaining the notion that I wasn't going to recover from whatever was happening to me because of the people."

"Are you serious?" Prussia asked. France looked up into his face and saw his stern glare fixated on his face.

He swallowed. Nodded. "I seriously thought I was going to die. I actually went to . . . " He started chuckling. Chuckling at the hilarity of his thought processes then. How he thought then that things couldn't get any worse. How wrong he was. "I actually went to Notre Dame. I went to mass. To . . . absolve myself, I guess. Just in case. I honest to God thought I was going to die."

Spain slid from the swing and skirted the fire to sit next to France, putting his hand on his shoulder. "That's horrible. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to keep apologizing. I don't want you to feel sorry for me. Anyway, I did feel a lot better after my little soul purge, and I decided that if anything was gonna change, I had to change it myself. I took an initiative. I tuned in to the whispers on the street, I spent time in parlors and listened to the chatter, added to the banter, networked, read the underground newspaper. Because by then people started talking about moving against the crown rather than against each other. They were only rumors, but I could feel that they were gaining strength. I heard a name rising to prominence: Maximilien Robespierre. I tried to go to one of his political caucuses, but I involuntarily ended up going on a bread riot instead."

"What do you mean, 'involuntarily'?" Spain questioned. France shook his head.

"You know exactly what I mean. National impulse." Spain nodded.

"So what happened?"

" . . . I don't know. All I remember is the exhilaration, and the power, and . . . and . . . I killed people. Parisian soldiers. I think that was the moment when my thought processes turned negative. Towards Louis, towards my situation, towards the rest of the Nations. I felt like I didn't need any of you, I didn't need your help, and I would fix it on my own, however I had to. Which was violence at that point. I answered your letters just to get you guys off my back, but I was really terse. Luckily I didn't have a chance to act on anything, since Louis called me back to Versailles.

"The whole time I was there, I worked to get him to disband Parliament. In the mean time Louis brought in a new finance minister. Calonne. He actually had a good head on his shoulders, and together we convinced Louis to call the Assembly of Notables to enact some new taxation changes. I think he realized by that point that the debt was too substantial to ignore anymore, so he was willing to do what we wanted. The two of them handled representation which- ha! - was a huge mistake. We had less than ten percent representing the Third Estate, and the rest representing the Second and First Estates. We got laughed out of there. Nothing passed. Even when Louis showed his support.

"For days we tried to sell our plan to them, but they weren't buying. To break the stalemate I pressured Louis into firing Calonne and hiring Jacques Necker back since he was in good favor with the people, but instead he brought in Brienne, who's there now. Although not who I wanted, he ended up being alright. So far. We finally got around to convincing Louis to implement the taxation reforms with a Parliamentary veto, and our next step was disbanding them completely. So now here we are."

"So are the reforms working?" Prussia asked.

"Oh! I don't know yet!" he said. "There are some nobles who simply refuse to enact them. I'm trying to get Louis to issue penal lettres de cachet, but he refuses to imprison some of them. His relationship with them is more important to him than his relationship with Third Estate France. So that's what happened. Probably less . . . I don't know . . . scary than you thought. I hope my actions don't annoy you more, now that you know. "

Nobody said anything for a long time. Spain's hand tightened around his shoulder once but otherwise, they sat in silence. And that was alright for France. There was nothing left to say. There were no more excuses to be made.

"Look," he began. He spared a glance at each of them to make sure he had their attention. "I know I said some really mean things, but I'm glad you didn't leave."

"I'm glad too, _mano_."

"Me too, _Frankreich_."

"Thanks for not abandoning me."

 

 **_September 11, 1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_ **  
**_France's Chambers_ **

France walked into his drawing room, slipping his ponytail out from under his collar.

"It's about time, France." Spain said, reclined comfortably on his stomach on a couch. Bad position to be in.

He skirted the armrest by Spain's ankles. "What are we going to do on your last day _here?_ " France said. As revenge on the last word he drew his hand back and slapped Spain's ample backside in passing so hard his own hand stung. Spain yelped, rubbing out the assaulted cheek.

"Nothing, if you keep taking so long to get ready!" Prussia said casually.

The comment made him smile. "You can't rush perfection."

"I rushed you!"

"Ugh, I'm done anyway, jerk! Remember that one time under Louis XIV when we went sheep stealing in Paris and were trying to outrun the guards? Who was the one falling behind then?"

Spain's gasped excitedly. "Let's go sheep stealing!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't really feel like running until I can't feel my legs," he said, plopping down on a couch.

"Oh, come on! We used to go sheep stealing all the time when you lived in Paris! Let's go again!"

"You want to go to the town of Versailles . . . One of the wealthiest towns in France . . . Where nobody owns sheep . . . In the middle of the day . . . and go sheep stealing?"

He watched Spain's face fall as his comment sunk in. "Oh. We could . . . "

"Let's go pick up women!" Prussia offered. "Two distinct things come to mind when I think of France and they are: wine, and women! I already got a good taste of the first one. When's the second one coming?"

"Literally, or figuratively? Because there are several distinct answers there, and-"

"Shut up! You know what I mean."

"My friends, I love you both dearly, but the art of courting French women is an exclusive art - known to and reserved only for French men."

"Tell us your secrets, please, we're _dying_ to know," Spain muttered, rolling his eyes.

"It's a game, gentlemen. An intricate game."

"I always thought French women were easy!" Prussia said, picking a piece of lint off his uniform. There he went again. Another well-placed jab to get a rise out of him. To goad him into telling again. Prussia was good at that. Fine. He could indulge them this time.

"You really wanna know?"

Prussia's "YES!" clashed harshly with Spain's lazy "No!" France decided that was a yes. He leaned in like he was about to share a dark, deep secret, and instantly the two of them were interested, whether they wanted to be or not. "The key is body language. Nine times out of ten we pay more attention to body language than we do to what people actually say, and we don't even realize it. Here's what you do: when you walk into the room and you spot the woman, approach her. Lead with your shoulder, so she's already thinking you're a confident, collected man, and not overbearing. If you charge at her, shoulders squared to her she'll become intimidated by your forceful body language. So, Prussia, work on that," he jabbed.

Prussia sneered, but France could tell he had his attention. "Shoulder first. When your head follows, raise your eyebrow slightly. Your eyes shouldn't go anywhere but her face, or she'll feel like a piece of meat. Your eyebrow will obviously check her out, and she'll make the assumption that you're sly. Witty. Wily. Smooth. And your hands swinging at your sides - now you're capable, too. Only, the words out of your mouth better match. You call her beautiful. You compliment her figure. You drop that pick-up line, that one phrase you've been reserving for someone special, and if she likes it, you're golden. In those few seconds you've presented yourself as as an enigma - one she's dying to solve, to know more about. You have to be enticing to her. You have to make her want you. Especially in the short term. Otherwise, you'll make her uncomfortable if you come on to her and persist when she's not interested. Make her interested. Make yourself a game."

"Does all this actually work?" Spain asked, green eyes wide with amazement. "I'm having a hard time believing you think about all this at once while staring at a beautiful lady."

"It's all about intent, Spain. What are your intentions? This only works for one-night flings. You don't need a deep, spiritual connection. You don't need to think about the beautiful lady yet. That part comes when you're taking off her clothes. If you have long-term intentions with the girl you better not be playing this game!"

"It sounds so hard. How the heck do you remember all that?"

"It is hard!" France said. "Which is why it's an art, and not for the faint of heart. But it's fun! Sixty percent of the time the chase is more fun than the reward. You take the chance that the pay off will be worth it!"

"Yeah, but why do you make it so complicated?"

"I don't make it complicated. That's how you talk to women! Women are complicated! They're beautiful, multi-faceted creatures, like kaleidoscopes. Pretty colors and patterns and designs everywhere. But you have to look to have them let you see it. They're like castles. You have to approach but then let her close the gap, and let you across the bridge. You can't just seize it without permission.

"Anyway, once you start talking to her, pay attention to your hands and face next. Respond casually. An eyebrow raise. A playful smirk. A lazy tilt of your head. You'll be steeped in sex appeal. Talk with your hands, but in consciously controlled moderation. Only use them to emphasize specific words or thoughts. Keep the rest of your body still. Calculate it. Actually calculate it. It implies that you've got secrets, and if she's patient, she might find them out. It's all a draw to you. Share stories of all kinds: adventures, embarrassments. Do not talk about triumphs or victories. You'll look like you're bragging. And keep them all under three minutes. If you start giving her your life story the mystery and secrets will be revealed. She'll have no reason to keep talking to you."

They were mesmerized, staring at him with mixes of confused disbelief (though whether it was at his extensive thought processes, or the fact that they were realizing he was right, France didn't know), and awe. "And all that works?" Spain asked.

"That's only half the fun, but if you want to get her to bed, yes."

" _Dios mío . . ._ "

"I've been using it for . . . well since the end of Louis XIV's reign, and it's never failed me. Ever."

"That's so . . . exhausting," he decided.

"Oh, please!" France scoffed, rolling his eyes. "The real game takes weeks!"

"So who's the bigger jerk?" Prussia prompted. "The guy who only wants one night in the first place? Or the guy who toys like this with a girl for one night?"

"Oh, well you shouldn't treat her like a game. She's not a prize, or a tool to be manipulated. Everything she does with you should be of her own volition. You are presenting yourself for her to either chase, or let go. But you have to read her. Does she look flirtatious, succinct, decisive? Your body language, and your actual language, will let her know what you want. If she's not interested, believe me, she'll leave. And that's another thing. If she shows a single sign that she's uninterested, walk away. You shouldn't ever try to force yourself on a woman. Or anyone."

"How did you even begin to come up with this?" Spain asked, rubbing his face. "That is on a whole sub-level of social interaction that I never want to reach ever. It's too crazy. Too over-analytical! Do you realize how complicated that is?"

"Oh, I don't use it all the time. It takes some of the genuine emotion out of it. Sure, it makes things interesting for a little, but sometimes I want genuine connection." He thought of Gwen and sighed like a teenage girl. "Women are worth it. They're beautiful, majestic creatures."

"That's kind of like, umm, uuuuh . . . " Spain trailed off, snapping his fingers to get the words to come to him. "I don't know, it was something Romano told me . . . AH! 'Purposed misinterpretation', he calls it!"

"What is that?"

"It's like, when you deliberately take the wrong meaning of someone's words when they could have two meanings."

" . . . What do you mean?" Prussia asked. "Like pretend you don't understand someone?"

"No, no, pretend you do! Only use a wrong understanding! Lemme think of an example. Ummmm . . . ok! So, you're walking down the road, and Gilbird's flying around you, _sí_?"

" _Ja_ . . . " he answered hesitantly, eyebrows furrowing.

"And someone says to you, 'Why is there a bird flying around you?' Clearly they mean, 'That's so strange, and there must be an explanation for how that bird got there in the first place and why it's following you,' right?"

"Well yes," France chafed. "Normal people don't just walk around with wild birds. Or even pet birds for that matter! No offense, Prussia."

"None taken."

"Right!" Spain assured them, nodding enthusiastically. "You know that's what they mean, but as an answer you say, 'Because he can't walk that fast.' You knew what they meant, but you used purposed misinterpretation!"

"Ooooh!" Prussia said, picturing it in action in some scenario in his head. "That actually makes a lot of sense!"

"I know! Romano uses it all the time I'm pretty sure! Usually what they asked was so simple that when they try to explain themselves they can't even do it because it's SO SIMPLE! Get it?"

" _Ja!_ That's really smart!"

" _Sí, sí!_ "

"So someone in Prussia could say, 'Why are you drinking _French wine?_ ', and I could say, 'Because I want to get drunk!'"

"Riiiight!" Spain said.

"That wasn't an implication that you want me to send you home with wine, is it?" France asked tiredly.

"Maybe a little bit."

"What were we talking about?"

"Purposed-"

"No, before that."

" . . . Oh! Doing something fun!" Prussia said. "I want to see the women thing in action!"

"No . . . " He really didn't feel like debauching. "I wanna spend time with you losers! And, no offense, but if I'm with a woman my mouth is going somewhere on her, not talking to you." The three of them fell silent again, brainstorming ideas. "Something fun . . . something fun . . . "

Suddenly Prussia perked up. "Wait. I've got something." He vaulted to his feet and sprinted towards the door.

"Where are you-"

"JUST STAY THERE DON'T ANYBODY MOVE!" he yelled over his shoulder in one breath. He disappeared, and they could hear his heavy footfalls pound down the hallway to his room before the door slammed.

France sent a questioning glance to Spain, but he only shrugged. "Don't look at me. I don't know what he's doing."

Suddenly the door slammed again, and the boots pounded back. He ran towards the back of Spain's couch and gave Spain a "Move!" and three second's warning to slide over before he vaulted the back and landed on the couch, cradling three unmarked bottles of clear liquid in his arms like babies.

"VODKA!" he screamed. "I've been saving it for the three of us!" France was about to ask where the hell he got vodka in France, but Prussia beat him to the story. "Russia and Catherine II met with me and Old Fritz to sign the Partition of Poland in 1772. When I first got there Russia hugged me? And then slid these out from under his coat and into my hands like it was the most secretive secret to ever secret, and he leaned in, really uncomfortably close and said really quietly, 'You know what's fun about being sober? Nothing! Ha-ha-ha!'"

He captured Russia's smooth, child-like accent perfectly. While they laughed he motioned for the wine glasses and poured them what was far more than normal, even for a Nation. "Then he smiled, patted my chest, and we went in for the meeting. Normally they drink a little at a time, but we wanna have a good time. Anyway, after I didn't get King Louis a gift, I thought about giving this to him. I almost did. But then I figured we'd need it more than him anyway!"

Spain took his glass back and gently sniffed the vodka, recoiling. He shook his head. "Whoo!" he yelled.

"Yeah, don't smell it," Prussia told him, "It'll burn the hair right out of your nostrils." He lifted his glass up. "Here's to the trio, back together!"

They clinked their glasses together.

So odd, so rough, so unrefined, so inelegant compared to the smooth, fruity wines that normally slid across his palate. The alcohol touched France's tongue and tingled all the way down his throat, even into his stomach. His face scrunched up from the bitterness, and he locked eyes with Prussia.

"Lightweight," he muttered.

Oooooh no he didn't.

 

The moonlight glinted off the water in just the perfect way. "Guys, look look look! The fountain, look how _beautiful_! Less' go in the fountain! Is' like . . . is' like . . . CHRISSMAS!" France yelled, already shrugging off his coat. He tried to work the vest buttons, but his brain was buzzing around inside his head and he was curiously light-headed and he couldn't get his fingers to work right. "Prussia help meeee," he whined, frustrated that he couldn't get them off. He decided he needed the ground for support to help him in his momentous undertaking. He leaned over, assuming his arms would catch him but then his face was on the ground, gravel digging painfully into his cheek. "Ow."

"I betchai can do a backflip into it!" he yelled, completely ignoring France.

"No, you gotta help me!" Prussia was already standing on the edge.

"Do. the. FLIP! Do. the. FLIP!" came Spain's cry behind him.

Prussia spun around to face them for the backflip, arms pinwheeling to desperately maintain balance. "WATCH AS THE AWESOME PRUSSIA-" He slipped and fell in. He erupted from the fountain with a huge splash, thrashing around wildly. "Ah! Fit! Shuck! Help me, I'm drowwwwwwning - Hehehehe," he giggled, putting his feet on the bottom. "This's like 'at one thing withe - ummm, ummm, ummm - _Scheiße_!"

Spain burst into laughter behind France, and tittered forward awkwardly until he tripped. He still tried to crawl towards the fountain like it held every answer to life's questions, though, and collided with France, who managed to sit up by then. He knocked them both over again. "He said SCHNEISER! HAHAHAHA-I can't even see straight."

"C'mon, guys, I'mmot messin' aroun!" France blinked away the smears in his vision and concentrated as hard as he could on the first button. He had to get them off. He just wanted to go in the fountain with Prussia. Prussia was having all that fun without him.

"Lemme help, _'migo_." Spain clutched at his vest and hauled him up towards him, and France sat and watched him in amazement as he gently undid all the buttons. Like they were melting off underneath his skilled hands. Wow.

" . . . How did you do that? You're like a WIZARD! THANK YOU!" he screamed. Spain just saved his life. He threw his arms around him and hugged him close. "Now I ken go in you saved me!" He let go of Spain and started pulling his shoes off, tossing them away.

"Yurr welcome, 'migo. Woooooooooah! Guys, you're spinninnnnnnnng . . . " he trailed off.

"HEY!" Prussia yelled. "Wha'ssat thing with the monster that lives inna water and - NO WAIT! I'mma MERMAID!" He dove into the water, swimming with his legs clamped together like he had a tail, dolphin kicking. "I'm gonna sing you to your doom! _Err leißlaaaaaaaagen . . ._ "

While he continued with his off-key, off-kilter arrangement of whatever he was singing, France finally managed to get his pants and socks off. He didn't feel cold, he noted proudly, standing completely naked in the Versailles gardens. He checked the clearance of the stone basin. Figured if he got a running start he'd be fine. He charged it, but veered wildly off-course. Luckily he stopped himself before he flipped head-over-heels over the cement. "I'll get it!" he shouted, assuming they were both watching him. He knew Prussia wasn't, but he checked to see if Spain was.

He was lying face down on the ground where France left him. "Ooooooh no! Spaaaaaaaain! Prussia, we lost Spain! Man down! Man down!" He thought of Prussia being a mermaid and yelled, "MAN OVERBOARD!" Funniest thing in the whole world.

"Happy birthday, have fun, drink whiskey and rum! Get plastered, you baaaaastaaaaaard," Prussia sang. "Dat-da da da da dum!"

The singing never stopped, but at least he knew, France thought. He had to hurdle the stone one leg at a time, but as soon as he was in he dunked his whole body in, even his hair. "Now I'm a mermaid!" So majestic. He tilted his head back and marveled at the silkiness of his blond hair in the water. Like . . . silk or something. "I feel like I have eight arms!" he declared, flicking them out to the side. "Like an octopus. Like they're extending out . . . " He inspected the hair on his arms, his new suction cups. Splashed them in the water.

Looking up, the moon was absolutely stunning. But what was even more stunning was the face in front of the moon. At the very top of the fountain was the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen. Her skin was so smooth, her features so chiseled and defined, even with the light behind her face. Hair in a bun with curly strands framing her face like a little pixie. Hips so full and round and her butt was so nice it rivaled Spain's. And she had abs - abs! She had her hand outstretched to him, reaching out to him. She wanted him. He wanted her. She was so beautiful.

He crawled up each layered ring, pretending he was a lion on the prowl, hunting his prey. "Well, helloooooooo!" he said. "You're soooo beautiful! C'mere!" He reached her at the very top. Oh geez, she already had her top off! He reached out and cupped her cold breasts. "You need someone to warm you up, eh? You like what you see?" he said, presenting himself to her. He planted a quick kiss to her nose, then each of her eyes, then her lips, holding himself there. He swore he felt her tongue, so he added tongue, jamming it sloppily against her lips. He rubbed up against her, water hitting his face, hitting his body. Suddenly, Prussia and Spain entered his mind. "Hey, d'you have any friends?" he asked.

She didn't answer him, but someone else did.

"HEY! GET DOWN FROM THERE RIGHT NOW!"

He looked, but couldn't see who yelled. There was too much water everywhere. "Prussia? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"GET DOWN FROM THERE!"

"Nooooo!"

He pressed his lips to the statue again. But it was spitty, even more spitty than the others. He was really salivating.

"France, he's serious!"

"Uuuuuuugh, fine! Only because you asked so nicely. But you're disappointing the lady! Sorry darling, can we do this another time? I loooove you." He gave her one last parting kiss before crawling down from the fountain, inch by painstaking inch, but as he got closer and closer to the ground, all his limbs started to feel heavy. At one point he forgot to pick his foot back up and slipped down the last level before splashing back into the basin. His stomach hurt. He waded his way to the edge before the figure grabbed his arm and drug him out over the side.

"Ow ow ow!"

He started sweating. Oh god, that roll over the cement didn't help. Stomach hurt bad. Really bad. The ground was spinning, faster and faster and faster, and his stomach lurched. Once. Twice.

He threw up all over the guard's boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So it's a head canon of mine that the Nations' signature laughs are more like giggles, and genuine laughter is normal? Idk, I just like that better than thinking the KESESESESE is the only setting Prussia has in the laughter department. I'm so glad I got to write the trio together! Of course their relationship dynamic is sort of like, "I pick on you, but you know I love you." So that's how I wrote it. A nice, little reprieve for France.
> 
> Please please leave a comment if you have time! Thanks so much to everyone who bookmarked/kudos-ed so far. When I've hit a block I read all the nice comments and find the motivation to work through it! This story is so much fun to write, and I'm glad so many of you like it!
> 
> -Keyblader41996


	12. Chapter 12

**_September 18, 1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_ **  
**_Louis' Bedchamber_ **

"The fountain, really?" Louis chuckled. "Naked?"

France nodded, leaning proudly back in his chair. "Earlier in the night, u-hum . . . " The memory brought a smile to his cheeks before he knew it. The sheer stupidity of their night, and the fact that they enjoyed it so thoroughly without shame, was so ridiculous to him that he couldn't help but smile when he thought about it. He had to compose himself before he dissolved into giggles. "B-before we go outside Prussia told us that if we poured the alcohol on our skin we'd get even more drunk? By then we were a little tipsy so of course we believed him. So there I was, sitting in the garden path just covered in vodka, fully convinced I'm getting more drunk off the fumes. And then I saw the fountain."

"Wh-which one was it again?" Louis stammered, voice strained from the laughter he was trying to contain.

"The Latona Fountain. The four-tiered one with the frogs spitting out water and the woman Latona at the top, you know which one I'm talking about?"

"Yes, I know."

"Lemme tell you - I fell in LOVE with Latona. The moon was glinting off the water and off of her body and she was just glowing and I thought she was so beautiful that I almost cried. Quite honestly all my thoughts were occupied with-" He wanted to say, "Banging the fountain," but second-guessed the informality of his statement. Eh, it would make the story funny. Whatever. "My thoughts were completely occupied with banging this fountain."

Louis giggled a little harder, sputtering into his wine glass. " _Oh good, he laughed_ ," France thought.

"Cold out? Not a problem! Water's freezing? Nope! Don't even feel it! I'm about to get publicly naked and flirt with a statue? Eh, so what? The male form's a beautiful thing! I'd do everyone a favor-"

"Hahahaha-"

" _Hon, honhon_ , I was so drunk, it made sense to me that if I did nothing else, the cold, wet fountain would be a good time. Next thing I know I'm trying to get my vest off but the buttons were like a chastity belt. Spain told me afterwards that all I did was rub my hands up and down my chest and wiggle my fingers and whine like a dog."

Louis burst into laughter. He laughed, actually laughed, and it caught France completely by surprise. For a split second he froze, unsure of this weird sound coming from Louis and if it was even real. Once he looked again and made sure that yes, that sound was coming from Louis, he realized that he had never, in all his time with Louis XVI, in 13 years, heard Louis laugh. Actually laugh. Not once. And it sounded nothing like how he would have expected Louis' laugh to sound. Throaty and loud, unlike his voice when he allowed it to speak. Not at all small, or tight, or meek, or compact. A bellowing laugh, straight from his gut. Each heave of his shoulders was clearly articulated by a distinct "HA!" that echoed loudly through the room.

France liked it. It suit a Louis that France wanted, and had been trying to build for 13 years. Confident, strong, hearty, loud, charismatic. It was contagious, and once he let his analysis slip from his mind he had to try hard to not let it infect him. He sipped his wine, chuckling weakly, enjoying the sight of Louis in hysterics in front of him for the first time.

"All of a sudden Prussia goes, 'GUYS I'M A MERMAID!' and starts singing as loud as he possibly can, and by this point I'm afraid. He's having so much fun in that beautiful fountain and what if I never get the buttons off? What if I never make it to her? What if Latona never gets a piece of the beautiful me? I'm ready to cry again, almost in tears, before Spain crawls over and helps me out. I remember, I think, watching his fingers like they're dancing on the buttons and they're just magically coming off. Like Spain was a wizard and I was in love."

"Hahahaha! Ooooh, that's too funny!" Louis said, wiping his eyes.

"Our faces were two inches from each other and we're both breathing really heavily from the walk over. Anybody walking near us with no context would have thought we were about to get it on, not me and the stupid fountain. I take the rest of my clothes off and go running to try and vault the side but I can't even walk straight. And I know I can't walk straight, and I think to myself, 'Geez, I can't walk straight.' And I feel like everyone is watching me even though there's only two of us. I crack under the pressure of all _two people watching me_ , and mess up jumping in. So I have to turn around and assure everyone I'm going to jump in."

He sipped his wine again to regather his jumbled memories.

"I was actually extremely proud of myself - despite my impairment, I fully managed to make the most graceful swan dive I've ever made ever. Or so I thought. But I couldn't even get over the barrier so instead I did this awkward, kind of, kick-over - naked, mind you-" He stood up and walked around the back of his chair to demonstrate how he had to do it, kicking his one leg over and pushing off with the other to straddle the back of the chair. "And I faked it as best as I could. I swear, it was really convincing! And, since Spain and Prussia were both just as drunk as me they probably really enjoyed it. I had everyone fooled. At the time I didn't feel a whole lot but the next day you better believe my crotch was on fire-"

"Oh, no!" he breathed, clutching his stomach between heaving laughs. "Where was Spain during all of this?"

"Oh yeah, haha!- Spain never made it. He passed out a few feet away after he got my buttons off. I ended up in the fountain, and I climbed the tiers - I crawled up them, actually. As if I could walk at that point. I use the term crawling loosely. I crawled up the fountain, and while I was making out with the fountain-"

"You at least asked Latona, right?"

"I don't know. I guess I did? I don't remember much, honestly-"

Suddenly, Louis cracked a joke, "There're _children_ sculpted up there! You were about to- HAHAHAHA!" he belted. "You were about t-to _violate_ a fountain with children watching! What is _wrong_ with you?"

France laughed hard, rubbing his forehead in mock embarrassment. "Who is this Louis? Cracking jokes, making fun of me? I like him! Can I keep him?" he shot back. "I was drunk! WAAAY more drunk than I usually am, and honestly I didn't see them. While I was making out with Latona a guard came because apparently we were 'Behaving illegally,' and 'Splashing too loudly,'" he said, air-quoting with his fingers as he mimicked the guard. "We spent all day in the Royal Guard's custody, sobering up. And by that I mean me and Prussia threw up a lot and Spain slept for a day and a half."

"What did that to you? What is it you drank?"

"We had some Russian vodka," he said. "As in, a lot of Russian vodka. Three bottles of vodka. Too much vodka."

"Wow. . . Vodka? Where on earth did you get vodka?"

"Prussia brought it. From the Partition of Poland. Russia gave it to him."

"Wow . . . " he repeated. "Sounds wild."

"It was pretty fun, yeah. It was the most fun I've had in a long, long time and I would highly recommend it - in fact!" he yelled, cutting himself off. "I think you and I should get that drunk together some time!" The idea struck him like a lightning bolt, and he immediately berated himself for not thinking of it sooner. Not once in the last 13 years. Normally he might've said it as a joke, that way he wouldn't feel embarrassed if Louis took it as a joke. But not this time. He was completely serious. And he would press it as hard as he had to if Louis tried to make it a joke.

Getting drunk together, partying together, was the perfect opportunity for Louis and France to finally connect. To finally break the professional molds and bridge the gaps to friendship. To a comfortable, easy-going, but honest relationship. They could laugh over their wine first to remove their inhibitions, then they could talk about fears, confessions, triumphs, history, art, music, opinions - in a clichéed, stayed-up-all-night-talking type of way. If they could put themselves in a situation where they could speak openly and honestly to each other, and have some semblance of a get-to-know-you session . . . maybe start building the kind of friendship they should have had throughout the last 13 years . . .

Maybe the idea was childish. It definitely was a stretch, a blind shot in the dark to try and hit something that couldn't be physically hit in the first place. And maybe he was being too idealistic. But if he was also being honest, he desperately wanted to be close to Louis. He wanted the type of companionship with him that he had with Spain and Prussia. (Granted, that was built over centuries, and had been soiled more than once with war and bloodshed, but Nations were different.) He felt like he was just on the outside of Louis' friend group. Not close enough to be invited anywhere with the group, but still on a "I'll talk to you when I see you," basis. They were both subconsciously working on bridging that gap, but a real opening up to each other would hopefully tear down any more walls they strategically built around each other.

They had a professional relationship. And on a whim, France assumed a real friendship was a step in the right direction for the two of them. Or maybe he just wanted an excuse to get blackout drunk again. Either way. Win win.

Over the centuries he heard mixed opinions on whether or not he should make friends with his rulers as a Nation. Britain recently maintained that it should be strictly professional. Britain was a generally serious person. Plus, France thought, the context of the last time they talked about it was odd. 1720 - if France remembered correctly, that was when King George I of the House of Hanover was coronated. He didn't speak a lick of English, only German, and Britain couldn't connect with him. It only made sense that they had a strictly professional relationship.

Holy Rome always said it should be professional. France didn't know the dynamic of the Holy Roman court, though. Holy Rome never talked about Joseph II, or Francis I and Maria Theresa before him.

But did they run into the little problem France was having right now - honesty? And trust? Not necessarily, if the ruler still made decisions based on the professional advice of the Nation.

Prussia maintained that it could be whatever the Nation wanted it to be, but he only started saying that when Fritz was 18 years old and next in line for the throne. Buddies ever since the whole affair with Hans von Katte. Bonded in their hatred of the previous ruler, Frederick Wilhelm I. So close that at one point France grew jealous and resented Fritz in his youth.

Spain was good friends with Fernando VI even before he succeeded Phillip V. Spain and Fernando's Portuguese wife Barbara were probably the only rays of sunshine in that poor man's life, especially since his father's second wife and her children openly despised him.

Austria and Hungary both adored Maria Theresa, even after they moved in with Holy Rome upon her marriage to Francis I.

What was the downfall to the positive side of it? If a Nation became too close to their rulers, it could turn into a 'What happens when you're gone?' scenario like Prussia had with Fritz. The after-affects of the those rulers' deaths floored the Nations for a while. From what France heard, Prussia was devastated, absolutely devastated, for months when Fritz died a year ago. And according to Spain, he still cried about it, though he'd never admit it.

Oh, well. Pros and cons, this and that, blah blah blah. There was always a chance things could go wrong. But considering what France wanted, a chance not taken was always a potentially missed reward.

Louis' chuckle ripped France from his thoughts with a start. He didn't even actually chuckle, he just blew more air out of his nose than usual and looked away from France. He took France's suggestion as a joke, as France thought he would. A clear 'no'. France persisted. He was prepared. "I'm serious! I think we should get super, ridiculously drunk together!"

"France, I really don't want to be prancing in fountains naked-"

"Oh come on, there's no guarantee that would happen! There's no better way to become better friends than getting drunk together!"

"France, no."

"But we need to spend time together outside of work. It's male bonding! Come on!"

"And what would we do, hm?" he asked, swirling the wine in his glass. "If we got that drunk during this 'male bonding?'"

Okay, so Louis was briefly entertaining the notion. He was giving France a chance to plead his case. Unless he was working on his backbone, he'd probably change his mind. "Anything! Probably just talk." Okay, no, he decided, he had to be honest. "Laugh a little, knock stuff over, laugh some more, pee a lot. With hard alcohol you hit a point where you just start peeing and you can't stop-"

"France."

"I'm just being honest! We'll do whatever comes to mind! You've been wine drunk before, you know how it goes! You ease up, all the tension goes away and you're more confident. You get a little giggly. Sometimes a little emotional. Add something a little less distilled and you get louder and less flouncy. Which is something you desperately need."

"That was rude-"

"Then you start acting in your confidence. If you manage it well, that's all that happens."

"Yes, but you're suggesting we're going to go beyond managing it."

"Because that's when it's the most fun!"

"So what happens after that?"

"That's the fun part - you don't know!"

"How are you alright with that?"

"Because it's fun! Pleeeeeeeeeease?" He really wanted Louis to have this opportunity to loosen up. Him and France could be friends. "You can kick everyone out of the palace and it can be just us! That way, if we do anything embarrassing the only people who'll see is Marie-"

"Marie, and my staff. And my children."

"Who among them will judge?"

" . . . "

"Louis, come on! I'm telling you, it'll be so much fun! I've only gotten that drunk a handful of times in my life, and every time it was amazing!

"Everything you remembered was amazing," he shot back.

"Details."

" . . . Hm. Maybe I'll consider it." He didn't even look France in the face.

"Oh, don't give me that! I know what that means!" France said, pointing playfully at Louis. "That means that you really don't want to, but you can't think of an excuse or polite enough dodge yet!" Louis opened his mouth to argue but France shook his head. "I haven't seen Japan in a while, since I think 1636, but I remember he always did that to me! That non-committal nonsense!"

"Just accept that I don't want to get drunk with you."

"Fine, I guess, we don't even have to get drunk! But you're going to miss out! When we run out of things to talk about while we're sober you'll regret it! Think, France, think!" How could he change Louis' mind? Blunt-force trauma to the ears wasn't working out. Mildly scare him into it? " . . . Fine. Fine! Fine, I can accept it!" he said, as the idea came to him. He stood quickly and went over to Louis' desk, grabbing a bare square of parchment and the pen from the ink well. Louis watched him curiously - France could feel his eyes on his back, scrutinizing him.

"What are you doing?"

"Writing." He dabbed the extra ink back into the well and started putting the obligatory addressing on it.

"France, really?"

"Really." He knew that wasn't what Louis meant. But purposed misinterpretation, right? "Okay, what should i write in this letter?"

"Oh, so it's a _letter_! To whom?"

"Technically it's an invitation."

"To whom?!"

" _Angleterre_."

"No, you're not inviting him here!" Louis shouted, suddenly serious.

"Why not?"

"Because I refuse to entertain the personification of Britain! Of our worst enemy!"

"I need someone to get drunk with since YOU won't do it! Plus, he can't hold his alcohol at all. So I'll get drunk and get a show!"

". . . B-but you hate Britain!" he sputtered incredulously. "I hate Britain! Why in the world would you ever want to invite Britain?"

"You've never even met him!"

"As if I don't hear the horrible things you say about him! You're not inviting him here-"

"We'll have soooo much fun without you-"

"France-"

"Louis-"

"I said no!"

"I say yes."

"Stop being such a child! This is manipulation! This is- this is blackmail!"

"No it's not," France insisted, glancing over his shoulder at Louis. "It's coercion." He winked coyly to let Louis know he was kidding, then leaned back over the desk.

"Same difference. I read some of the things my grandfather wrote about you two. I won't have you arguing and squabbling for a week straight, annoying all the rest of us."

"Oh come on, that was during the Seven Years' War! It's over now, we'll be fine!"

"On multiple occasions he said you two tried to murder each other! During diplomatic meetings! It wasn't just during the Seven Years' War, you liar! It's been your whole history!"

"I haven't seen him in so long-"

"And so you'll make the rest of us suffer? France, no."

"Please?"

"No!"

That wasn't an official order. France could tell. If Louis would've ordered it of him he would've felt his tongue and his pleas shut down. His emotions and desires would still be like a live wire, unfortunately, and he'd be unable to do anything but accept the order as if he were talking but someone else's affirmations were coming from his mouth. It felt vaguely like watching himself speak from someone else's point of view. But he could still plead and while he could still plead he was going to. "Pleeeeease?" He clasped his hands in front of him and ran over to Louis, throwing himself to his feet theatrically. "Pleeeeeeeeease, please, please, pleeeeeeeease? Just this once? I'm soooooooo lonely here!" he cried, laying the back of his hand across his forehead. "Spending days and days and DAYS by myself-"

"Spain and Prussia weren't good enough?"

"Britain is different company! Looooooooouuuuuuuuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-" He clutched at the bottom of his waistcoat until he shooed him away.

" _Mon Dieu, tu es ennuyeux_! Fine."

"YES! _Merci, merci, merci!_ " He jumped up and threw his arms around Louis. "I'm so happy I could kiss you-"

"Please don't."

"Help me with the letter."

"No."

"Oh, come on! This requires nuance. Skill in the art of skirting around what I actually wanna say. You're the KING of vagueness, no pun intended."

"Well it was a pun, and it was rude. I don't know, I've never met Britain, and personally, I don't want to. Why would I ever want to voluntarily meet the physical representation of the country we've hated for centuries?"

"Then we'll skip formalities so you don't have to talk to him. Come on, help me! I need to word this so it looks like him coming over will harm me. That's the way with him: make him think he's in charge, pulling all the strings. Whether he actually is or not, just let him think he is. I should flirt - he HATES it when I flirt. I'm starting with, 'Dear Britain'. Next line: 'I know it's been a while since we've written.' Then what?"

"I don't know, but end it with, 'This is an invitation I'm expecting you to decline.' Make mention that you won't make any preparations."

"Wow. Now that's manipulation. That's devious and absolutely undermining. I love it."

 

_'Dear Britain,_

_Louis and I can't really think of an appropriately-false cheerful introduction before I insult you, so I'll cut to the chase._

_A mere glance about your visage raises in me the most abhorrent feelings of disgust and outrage, best described as the sensation of smelling cow that's been dead for months. Just picture it for a moment, and if it's vivid enough, your gag reflex may trigger as mine does._

_Tell me - does your firm, round, perfectly pert English bottom ever get jealous of all the crap that comes out of your mouth?_

_I suppose your situation's not all bad, and maybe I could learn a thing or two about positivity from you! After all, you still love nature despite what it did to you!_

_"If you ever had a bright idea, it was probably beginner's luck." - Louis_

_And that was for Jeanne. Stay prepared - as if that were the last batch of sass in her defense. Until you apologize, it will not stop._

_Now that we got that out of the way, I'd like to invite you to my house._

_I miss you, you pig._

_I haven't physically seen you since Yorktown, Virginia, The United States of America. 1781. And though five years, in the grand scheme of a Nation's life, is not very long, it's felt like eternity for me. So many things have happened in France. Some were good, some were not, but I've been forced to take things one at a time, and respond to them one at a time to maintain the balancing act I'm performing right now. Me and Louis, two performers in a circus that is not our own. I've got control of myself and my act, but the slightest misstep at this stage of the political game could spell our defeat, so I must be vigilant. Ah, but the constant vigilance is making the time pass at a snail's pace. Making me miss you. And so these five years have been a decade, a century, a millennium._

_I think it's safe to say that I don't actually HATE, hate you. You just annoy me sometimes, and given the chance I would absolutely jump on the chance to kiss your entire face, including your ridiculous eyebrows. I'll trace them with my fingers, then slide them down your chiseled jawline and back to your nose to your thin and nearly non-existent lips and then press my own luscious lips against yours and . . ._

_I'd really like for you to come to Versailles. So I can speak plainly to you, give you an update on my status and France's status, have a drink. Or two. Or three. Or ten. I want us to get really really drunk together. So I can have another moment of mental peace. And, excuse me for being selfish but I need fun. I need fun, I need excitement, I need laughter, I need to cry, I need time away from work, I need to live again. And you probably need an excuse to eat anything other than your horrible food. And plus too, with alcohol no one will judge us when things start to get steamy and the clothes come off. You can't see it but I'm winking seductively at you through the parchment._

_Gosh, I sometimes love writing to you better than talking. You know why? You can't fight back!_

_Since this is an invitation I'm expecting you to decline, I won't go to any extra trouble getting Versailles ready for your arrival. I won't warn the staff, I won't have them cook anything, I won't tell Louis or Marie about this since they'll say no anyway. I can just drink alone like the frog that I am._

_Have a nice life, jerk._

_I really do want to see you. Please consider coming to Versailles._  
_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

Not at all the letter he intended to write. But it was sincere and hopefully Britain would at least feel guilted into coming, if not wanting to come on his own. All France had to do was wait for a reply.

 

 

**_September 20 ,1787_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_ **  
**_Oeil de Boeuf_ **

France didn't sleep well.

Maybe it was because he considered this his first time "returning to work" since Spain and Prussia's visit. Maybe it was because he could barely graze his scrape anymore, even with bandages covering it, before he was shooting awake and biting his tongue and doing everything in his power to suppress his pain. Maybe it was because France the country wasn't sleeping anymore. Everyone was constantly on edge, constantly plotting, constantly watching their own backs. It was a disaster.

He hadn't looked at his back since the Parliament meeting in Paris. At that point it was only bleeding. Now he was sure the bruise was back along with the hot, irritated ring around it. He didn't dare look at it now, nearly a month later. It was not only a testament to France's poor civil situation - the split between the people and the nobility - but it was also an omen. It was the way to quantify and assess the damage, and project the future damage he could withstand before everything fell apart. He didn't dare look, too afraid that it was a bad omen. That he would see that he only had a little more he could take.

The last time the doctor came and patched it up for him, France swore he felt his fingers peel the two flaps of skin apart slightly, though he adamantly denied it.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy?" reached his ears through the door.

"Hmngh!" he grunted exasperatedly into his pillow.

"Monsieur Brienne calls for you this afternoon. He says there is news on Paris' tax situation."

What all had he missed in his leave? He didn't know, and he didn't particularly care. Thinking about jumping back in to the fray felt like . . . He didn't know. His time off was supposed to be rejuvenating, and it was! It absolutely was! But when he thought about returning to all the emotional trauma, it re-exhausted him, like he never went on break in the first place.

Anyway, if he had to guess what he missed, it wasn't much. Brienne didn't even get his taxes passed in France's time off. France wasn't really sure how that was possible considering the Parisian Parliaments were exiled and the Versailles Parliament met Louis' lit-de-justice last time.

Unless the people were still trying to pull the 'États-Generaux' card. God, France hoped not. He thought back to when they first pulled it from their hand: "Only the États-Generaux has the power to determine taxes," or something on those lines. He sighed tiredly to himself, mashing his face into his pillow in exasperation. They were just going to delay things even longer until the États-Generaux even convened, let alone made a decision. And while they him-hawed, Louis him-hawed, and while Louis him-hawed, people grew angry. And while people grew angry-

"Nope! Don't think about that. Do not go there!" he thought to himself. He had no reason to think anything beyond the here and now. And maybe a few events in the future. The thought that they were delaying the processes on purpose crossed his mind, and he grew instantaneously frustrated. He was powerless to do anything about it. He did not at all doubt that there were people who wanted to ruin him. There were people who wanted to see France fall. Or maybe it wasn't that they wanted to ruin France so much as it was that they wanted to ruin Louis. But if they wanted to ruin Louis, they mustn't have had any idea of the consequences it would have. Because it absolutely would ruin France depending on what happened after Louis.

Unless, France suddenly thought, they had a plan for a coup or something and had somebody lined up - oh, GOD what if they were planning a coup?

Ugh, he had to get up now. Enough thinking. He had to save his mental strength for whatever it was Brienne was about to tell him. If they had to work around any roadblocks, he wanted to be able to think his way around it.

He quickly dressed, throwing on bland, tan breeches and a solid navy jacket. No vest today. He didn't feel like trying. He just over-tucked his shirt into his pants.

France dreaded this encounter. He knew nothing had gotten done. He just dreaded it being told to his face. That meant he had to come up with something clever. Some loophole to exploit to get around it. But he was just too mentally tired. He was emotionally exhausted. He didn't want to put in any effort.

Sometimes, being a Nation was so fun.

As he opened the doors to Louis' drawing room and strode in, he cast the first person he saw - Louis behind his desk - a purposefully bleary-eyed glare to hopefully convey how tired he was. And that he was not in the mood for anyone's crap today. He just wanted to be in, out, done, as soon as possible. Louis didn't react at all to the look. He mustn't have understood it. So France shot it to Brienne instead. "Ok," he sighed heavily, mentally trying to prepare himself for the discussion. "What are we looking at?"

"The tax reforms-"

"Yes, I know 'the tax reforms!' What are we looking at? Did they pass? Did they not pass? What happened?"

"Well, as i'm sure you already know, they did not pass." He clasped his hands behind his back and stared at his shoes, bracing for France's negative reaction.

"Why not?"

"I'm not quite sure, exactly!" Brienne said brightly, looking up at him with that perpetually alarmed look to his wide eyes. "The Estates-General was offered again. Claims that only the Estates-General has the power to levy taxes, you know. And there was also talk of simple refusal to pay. Oh! And they mentioned the peoples' reactions to new taxes - which is completely not a factor considering the new taxes only apply to the upper class. People even tried to speak for the clergy, saying that God was opposing them. Which I am completely disputing, as a man of God myself. So I think to answer your question, I'm not quite sure. I reached so many different and flimsy oppositions that I can't quite find one strong enough to pin it on."

France sighed again, running a hand through his hair.

"You seem surprised," Brienne muttered.

"Not surprised, just . . . tired. I'm tired of these people always getting their way when we have the King of France on our side."

"They keep finding loopholes in his power. Whoever wrote it all down made sure to include just enough clauses to worm their way around anything. I'm not saying it would've made much of a difference, but we could've at least had somewhat of a better shot with you there, arguing and putting some of them down with your inherent knowledge of the situation. Why did you stop going to the meetings?"

"I just . . . couldn't do it anymore," France said, rubbing his eyes. "When your physical body hangs in the balance, and people are poking and prodding it and pushing it around, you tend to not want to be mentally there when it all happens. You tend to want to detach." He let the conversation die, and it was quiet for a long while as everyone pondered the mental picture associated with France's imagery. To fill the gap, he added, "If ever you find yourself in a position to ask a group of us, 'What's the worst part of being a Nation?' I guarantee every one of us would say civil war. Some may make it a little more general and say war, but I would fight the Seven Years' War a thousand times over and get stabbed and shot and clubbed and have my _dead body danced over_ by Britain a thousand times over if it meant I didn't have to go through all this nonsense. Who's saying what, who's doing what? How does each individual person's actions affect me and affect my political situation and who does it benefit and why and this and that and the other and so many things going on at once and I can't keep track of all of it."

"Hm," Brienne grunted. He couldn't think of anything appropriate to say back, and France did not blame him in the slightest. He could never relate to France's situation, and France never expected him to, and never would expect him to. "Well, at any rate," he finally said, changing the subject. "I've been blocked."

"I'm confused," Louis said. "I've exiled the Parisian Parliaments, but can't pass these new taxes in Paris?"

"No, because the Versailles Parliaments are saying you don't have the authority to do it in Paris without some sort of legislative body," France interpreted for him. "They claim it's the Estates-General, and that's why they want to call it."

"Then why did I exile them in the first place? I can't overrule the Versailles Parliament with a lit-de-justice like I did before?"

"Not while the Estates-General has even come up as an option. They'll just keep using some random legislative body as a block. The same block Calonne hit, though they probably offered the no's to Brienne far more nicely than they did to him."

"So we're stuck?"

France nodded to Louis. "We're stuck."

"Well, we have to do something," Brienne said exasperatedly. "I have to do something to show the people we're trying, isn't that what you said? We'll never exactly quiet them, but we can at least placate them!"

"What, then?" France suddenly snapped. He just wanted to be done with this. Every word out of everyone's mouth was like hands piling on top of each other and pushing down on his shoulders. Making him tired and sluggish. "We have nothing for them, no choice to make! Of course we have to call the Estates-General! That's not even an option! Because until we do, they'll just-"

"Okay, that's fine! We'll call it!" Louis yelled over him. "We'll schedule it if that's what they want, but we need an immediate solution to the taxes, not the meeting!"

"And we're trying!" he yelled back, taking a few steps towards his desk. His last line of defense between him and France's anger. "But I'm all out of ideas, here! What else is there to do? We have to do something! But what, damn it?"

Louis collapsed back into his chair, and the conversation lulled again as each man thought of something, anything they could do to make some minuscule sort of change. Either that or they were sulking, which was mostly what France was doing. It was hopeless, and he didn't want to be there. They were doomed - could he go back to bed?

"I could . . . " Brienne said, perking up. He paused, blinked, thought a bit, then slumped back down. "No, never mind. Hmmmm . . . wait! What if . . . Actually, no. Never mind. Aaaah, but wait, maybe if I . . . "

"Yeeees?" France prompted. "Remember what I said about sharing all ideas? With debate a half-hearted idea could turn into a plan of action."

"Yes, but . . . Well, it could work, if . . . Sure, but . . . I'll just . . . I mean, I said I wouldn't, but . . . I don't think it'll help anything, but . . . The people definitely won't like it, but . . . "

"WHAT?!" France yelled, making him flinch.

"I'll just extend the _vingtième_. The income tax across the board. The twenty percent."

After all that build up he gave, only to let . . . only to settle . . . France's bubble of anticipation popped quickly. His shoulders slumped, he visibly deflated. "What?! No! After all that work! After all that planning, all that confrontation, all that - everything we did, you're just going to settle on the _vingtième_ that's already in place? After they spoke to you directly and said they didn't like it?"

"I know, I know! I'm thinking. Give me a moment. We could change the _vingtième_. What if we make it a smaller percentage?"

"That won't do anything!" France scoffed.

"It'll do something," Brienne countered calmly.

"Hang on a moment," Louis interjected. "Calm down, France. They want to call the Estates General, no?"

"Yes," Brienne began, unsure of where he was going. "But we have a problem with that. We don't want them to delay everything anymore- "

"Well why not? If all we're going to do is extend the _vingtième_ , maybe a delay is what we need. Maybe we could use the same excuse to delay that as well."

"But the _vingtième_ is already in place," France said uncertainly.

". . . And?"

"And? What do you mean 'and'?"

"What do you mean what do I mean 'and'? So what if it's already in place?"

"Well taxes don't just go away when nothing changes. An extension isn't like we're enacting something new. It's already in place. We don't have to do anything, and it'll still be collected. We'll effectively do nothing." He sighed again. He was doing that a lot lately. "The people are going to hate this. We're just going to give them another excuse to . . . What a disaster. Every step we take, we inch closer and closer to disaster. They have to be doing this on purpose. I swear they are. They want to push us towards disaster."

"I don't know about that." Brienne said.

"No, I do. They are. They have to be."

"I just don't . . . Who are you referring to? The people as a whole?"

"To everyone!"

"What would the peoples' purpose be? I think you're confusing the upper classes as the people as a whole, and their intentions."

"And how in the world would I confuse them?"

"Because for once their interests are aligning in the Estates-General. The nobility and the people do not stand together. Though they may say it, they do not operate with the Third Estate in mind."

"You think I don't know that? I've been calling that bluff since 1774! Since the 1600s, even! And I know what everyone wants!"

"I'm not sure you do. You keep saying delay, delay! You're acting like that is the peoples' excuse for violence. Like the nobility called it for the people. But what about the peoples' own benevolent causes? The Assembly of Notables, though it collapsed, was about hearing grievances directly from each estate, and enacting heavier taxes on the upper class. The nobility want to delay those taxes, so they call for the Estates General. On the other hand, the people want the Estates General because it is another chance for representation and change. You're mixing the two up. You're merging the reasons as a personal attack against you, France. I know what you're implying - overthrow. Anarchy. But you're confusing who wants that. Really, if anarchy is anybody's end goal is should be the peoples'. Why in the world would the nobility want to overthrow Louis, when he-" He paused.

"What?" Louis said, squaring his shoulders to Brienne.

"Nothing."

"No, no, say it!"

" . . . I . . . "

"Monsieur, say it."

Brienne looked to France for help but France had no idea where Brienne was going with it in the first place. He couldn't even come up with a good lie to cover the man. He shrugged his shoulders, abandoning him to the fate of his words.

He sighed. "Why would the nobility want to overthrow Louis when he's so impressionable as a King," he muttered, staring at the floor. "You have to keep them separated, France. Because we don't want to unintentionally help the upper class when we want to help-"

"I'm sorry, what? Pardon?" Louis asked, cocking his head. "What did you say? I'm impressionable? Is that what you all secretly think of me?"

"Oh, don't you get upset!" France snapped, shaking his head furiously. "I've thought that since you stepped into power. I've said it to your face countless times, that you're too soft. You let people push you around and push you where they want you to be pushed. You've agreed with me, even. Grow a spine, Louis. Grow a spine, and stand up for yourself, and we wouldn't have to take it into account. Don't act like you're so offended when it's one of your most acknowledged insecurities. An insecurity that you expect the two of us to fix."

"How dare you-"

"How dare I?" France growled, narrowing his eyes at Louis. "You think. You think looooong an hard about just _how_ I dare."

" . . . " Though he held France's gaze and didn't quite back down, he didn't answer. France tacked a point on his mental scoreboard.

"B-Back to business . . . ?" Brienne offered. France nodded and Brienne stared at Louis. "I'm sorry, _Majesté_."

" _Pas de problème_ ," he grumbled. "France is right."

"As I was saying, France, you're confusing the two people, and their end goals. The people who could potentially want anarchy are the benevolent causes behind the Estates General. The people who are complacent are the malicious causes. Our goal is to help the people's side of this. The benevolent ones, the suffering ones."

"I know that! But we can't when the nobility are delaying us!"

"I know. But we have to do something."

"Extending the _vingtième_ will do nothing!"

He sighed again. "I'm sorry. But I'm all out of ideas. Louis, any ideas?"

He shook his head.

 

 

_**September 22, 1787** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments** _  
_**France's Bedchamber** _

_'Frog,_

_I was going to write some insults back, but I've decided to let you live. I'll let you keep your lice-infested life. George encouraged me to be the bigger person here._

_I will say this: I was going to try and be nice and see things from your point of view, but then I remembered that I'll never get my head that far up my ass._

_To answer the underlying question of your horrendously inappropriate and near-sickening letter - no. Absolutely not._

_I cannot leave my post at this time. I'm sorry. Or maybe I'm not sorry. Why would I ever want to voluntarily spend time with you? With the person who just fought the Seven Years' War against me? I'm just far too busy, and I have far too many things to worry about right now to go getting involved with you. And while I am genuinely glad to hear that things are finally looking up for you again after my last update, I must cater to my own needs before the needs of you and the French._

_You understand._

_I'm having a little bit of trouble with things at present. I won't regale you with all of the details, partially because I don't want you knowing my business and you need to learn to keep your snubbed French nose up in the air and out of everyone's business. But I will tell you that George is not well. The American Revolution and the Seven Years' War have taken their tolls on him, I think. He claims he is fine, but I am not so sure. About a month ago I started noticing some slight changes in his speech patterns, his behaviors - just subtle things. Nothing major. But still present in him._

_Then just last week he started declining more rapidly. He shakes now. Not just his hands, either. His whole body trembles, and when I confronted him about it he was rather dismissive. He blamed it on the chill of late fall but I don't buy it. Then, sometimes while he talks he'll trail off and won't finish his sentence. When I probe him to continue he won't remember what we were discussing in the first place. He's doing the opposite a well. He sometimes lapses into speech for minutes at a time, babbling incoherently._

_William Pitt and I are working diligently to protect Britain and ourselves in case the worst should happen, though I remain in high hopes it will not. George is under much pressure and stress right now. He will persevere._

_As I said before, I am going to have to decline your . . . articulate offer. I just cannot leave George or William or the House of Lords right now._

_You wouldn't want me to come over anyway. I'd absolutely shave your head in your sleep._

_May you put on fresh stockings and step in a wet spot,_  
_Arthur Kirkland; The Kingdom of Britain'_

King George III, ill?

France wasn't quite sure how to react to the news. It just didn't feel real.

Nothing ever really sank in with him anymore if it didn't somehow involve France. He was so focused on himself and his own needs for so long that hearing about the world outside France was strange. It was disconcerting to learn that the earth still spun around him even though he stopped.

That was ONE thing France was graced (cursed?) with - Louis' health. And Marie's health. And the health of his oldest daughter Marie Thérèse, and his youngest son Louis-Charles. Louis-Joseph, the older son, the one who was meant to become _le Dauphin_ , was holding on desperately through his illnesses, but France was too afraid to include him in any future plans lest he . . . not pan out. France would never voice any of those thoughts in public about Louis-Joseph. He knew how cold and heartless he sounded when he thought about it, and if the wrong person overheard he could be arrested for treason or sedition or whatever they came up with.

France wasn't close to any of the children. They just didn't meet at all as he went about his day. His daily routines around the Palace of hiding in his room and only leaving when Louis wanted him kept him away from them. Maybe, he thought, he should try and remedy that. Maybe get to know the children a little better, especially when one of the sons would become Dauphin, no matter if it was Louis-Joseph or Louis-Charles. He could think about that later. Maybe make that a project for 1788.

And maybe Britain would have a dry spell.

 

 

_**October 4, 1787** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments** _  
_**France's Bedchamber** _

They couldn't know he was trying to sneak out.

He had to do this as quietly as possible. If the butlers heard him stirring they would come in and tend to him. And depending on what stage of the job he was in he'd have to drop whoever he had to drop. They were just doing their job. But he couldn't let word spread around the Palace that he was a deserter of some kind, or a leak for the people. They would call for his removal and Louis wouldn't be able to defend him. Nobody could. He didn't have anyone at Versailles who knew enough about his intentions to help him. Not even Brienne.

Overreacting? Maybe. Protecting himself? Most definitely.

He allowed his bare back to freeze for a little while longer before he determined it was okay to get up and do something. He kicked the heavy covers off of his legs and stretched out as far as he could without aggravating his back. As he sat up, he paused to peer over his shoulder at the bloody bandages, using the same silence to take stock of any activity outside his door. Nothing. He was in the clear for now.

Something inside of him kept saying, "Paris. Paris. Paris." Over and over again. "Where should I go?" "Paris." "What should I do?" "Go to Paris." "What's in Paris?" "Just go to Paris." He needed to get to Paris. The urge was like little charges pulsing through his whole body, and into his fingers. Shooting back and forth, jumping from nerve to nerve and triggering pins and needles in waves. They felt like little burning snakes slithering underneath his skin, and he just knew going to Paris would calm them down, get them out of him.

It unnerved him, not knowing what was in Paris or if it would help or hurt him. He didn't want to get wrapped up in the peoples' messes again like last time. He didn't want to kill anybody else. He barely remembered it, like he was possessed. He didn't want anything other than his consciousness to take over. But he knew he had to do it anyway. He knew he was at the mercy of whatever nature had in store for him.

How hypocritical of him.

If he snuck to the stables and took two horses he could make the trip tonight. Or, at least by morning. Then he could spend the day in Paris and by the time Louis even knew he was gone he would be back at the Palace by the next night. Maybe he could steal the two Andalusian horses Spain gifted Louis and Marie. From the Palace to Paris it was . . . he didn't know the exact distance in leagues but it was more than manageable by two horses bred for war. At a dead sprint, two paced horses would be more than capable. Of course, he would run into the problem of having such nice horses tethered outside a parlor in Paris, but he could deal with that later. If something happened and Spain wanted his horses back France could give him two Pottoks. Spain's weights and measures system was so ridiculously messed up he'd probably accept them anyway. Just happy for a gift.

He shuffled over to his armoire and slowly pulled open the sock drawer, grinding his teeth against the squealing of the wood on the frame. He froze and listened for the butlers, but their silence greeted him once again. He inched the drawer out until he could shove his hand through the space and grabbed the first pair of stockings he found. He held them out in front of the window's moonlight and determined they were navy, or black. They would do. The strong urge to run through his mental clothes database charged through him, and he had to force himself to stop trying to match clothes. He had to go with whatever he found first right now. Besides, nice clothes would only be a detriment in Paris.

France pulled open the drawer with all his pants in it, and ended up being more selective anyway. He wanted a beige or a tan. Something generic without a colored stitch or an embellished stitch. He dug and shoved clothes around until he found the specific pair he was looking for and slunk back over to his bed while he pulled both pieces on. That way if anyone heard and came looking he could at least lie down and pretend he was asleep. For a jacket he just selected something dark, and solid. Nothing special on it. Very nondescript. For the final touch, he committed personal blasphemy and tucked his thick, blond hair into a small newsboy cap. He very nearly put his shoes on before heading to the window, but he realized they would most definitely hear his shoes clacking obnoxiously on the floor. Instead, he grabbed them and padded over to the window, throwing it open first. He turned around and did one last sweep of his room, making sure he grabbed everything he needed to grab - oh! Money! And his gun.

Damn it! Every task he had to add was another second wasted and another chance they could hear him. He could see his money pouch there on the dresser. He could hear its horrible chuckles filling his room as it laughed at him from his perch. France put his fingers to is lips and shushed it before he realized what he was doing. Smacking himself lightly on the forehead, he crept over and snatched it, clenching it in his fist to keep the coins from jingling. He practically ran back to his bed and snatched his pistol. He stuffed the gun in the front of his waistband and slithered to the window, dropping the purse. Waiting for the soft plink as it hit the ground. He slid his shoes on and spun around, putting one leg out the window at a time and on the stone ledge.

He shimmied himself down until he was hanging by his fingertips and crouching over his legs, then he pushed off and let himself drop. He fell a full story and landed in a crouch. He let out a muffled "Oof!" as pain sprang in his ankles, making them go numb for a second. He staggered forward a few steps, and as soon as he regained his footing he rolled and stretched them. He'd be fine.

The fresh, crisp air seemed to numb his back through his coat. Almost relieve him despite his layers on top of his scrape. Or maybe the fact that he was acting on his impulse was making him feel better - That's what he forgot: a heavier coat! Oh well. He'd just tough it out. As if to spite him his breath made a particularly thick cloud in front of him. He became consciously aware of the cold. Every pin the cold started to shove into his fingertips. The harsh air cutting into his nostrils. The wind nipped his nose and fingers and cut through all his clothes, so he gathered his jacket around himself.

His room was on the east side, if looking at the palace. The same side as the Grande Écurie, where the saddle horses, and horses meant for Louis and Marie's personal use would be. He ran the length of the side wall to the front of the palace and crouched there on the corner, peeking around to check for guards. He checked behind him one more time just to be sure, but if anyone was going to patrol along the wall they'd have a long way to go before they spotted France. There were guards patrolling the courtyard, revolving the statue of Louis XIV. France could cross the Place d'Armes and risk being spotted heading into the stables, or he could go down a few major streets and risk being caught by the city patrol. Either way he had to get to the Avenue St. Cloud, one of the three major roads that lead to Versailles. St. Cloud ran on the right flank of the Grande Écurie.

He decided to go down the side street. He could pose as a regular townsperson if he acted right while he walked. They'd wonder what he was doing so close to the palace, but he could make up a lie if he had to. He jammed his hands into his armpits and huddled over, making himself look even more undistinguishable. It was probably better he forgot a coat. All the heavy coats he had were nice ones. He walked quietly, making fresh footsteps in the light frost.

France wasn't stopped, even as he crowded close to the stable's side of the street. He didn't pass any guards. It was as if the stars aligned for this night, for him to get to Paris. So far so good. He reached the gates of the stable, right at the edge of the Place d'Armes. He kept to the shadows as much as possible, sliding around the corner and into the stables when he was over fifty percent sure the guards hanging out around the Place d'Armes weren't looking.

He knew which horses were Spain's instantly. They were far more well-tended to than the other horses. Their brown coats were shiny and sleek and their manes were long and black and beautiful. And, they simply stood a little taller than the other horses. Like they knew their purpose and they were trying to act the part as much as possible. France quickly found two saddles and geared them up, making sure to pack blankets for while they were standing outside. Mounting one and tethering the lead rope to a buckle on the cantle, he disappeared out of the small side door, leaning low over the horse's neck while he squeezed it through.

By the time he got to Paris, he had no idea where he was going. He just walked the horses, taking lefts and rights wherever they felt right. It reminded him of battle. When there were multiple engagements going on at the same time, the Nations usually ended up at the more important ones. He didn't know where he was going, he just knew that some directions felt right and others felt wrong and he just had to follow the right ones. As if he could follow the wrong one anyway. He felt it was right to stop when he reached a small parlor on a nondescript rue that he didn't care to take a moment and learn the name of. He was there on a mission, whether or not he knew what it was himself, and he would accomplish it. He was freezing and shivering, his eyes were cold and watering, his fingers and toes were numb. He couldn't feel his face or his lips. And his nostrils kept freezing from the running snot he kept snorting up. He was glad when he reached his destination. A small parlor.

He dismounted, knees collapsing when they hit the ground. France took a moment to regain his balance and tethered both his horses to a rung outside. It took him forever. He kept trying to feed the rope through but his fingers weren't responding. Eventually he gave up, wrapping it around the whole post instead of the rung. He pulled off both saddles and checked for sores or rubs, then checked their hooves for pebbles or stones. Throwing their blankets over each of them, he patted one's neck and muttered, "Thanks, Spain." Then, addressing them both, he said, "I'll get you warm water and food, I promise."

He knew where he was. He recognized this place from his last time in Paris. He spoke to the tavern owner after closing one night. Étienne, his name was. The dad-like man, who looked out for him. France practically threw the door open and crossed the threshold, the warmth on his face an instant relief. The people closest to the door stopped talking, and started staring. Already suspicious of an unknown person potentially hearing something they maybe weren't supposed to. France dutifully ignored all of them. He had to, absolutely had to. It was imperative that he not start any fights or raise any doubts. He needed these people to trust him. He crossed the room to where the kegs were lined on the wall, the seat where he first spoke to Étienne, before he was cut off.

"Help you?" a maidservant offered, throwing her hands on her hips. Blocking his way into the parlor any more.

He could only talk slow. His lips were too numb and too slow and too thick. "'M looking fffor Étienne," France suddenly realized that was all he knew about the man. He only met him once that day in Paris. If they probed him for more information he would have none to give, except a description of him. "He owns this p-place, right?"

"Who's asking?"

"T-tell 'm FFFrançois is here to talk to 'mm. Describe mmme to him. Blond hair, bright blue eyes. He'll remember m-me."

She looked him up and down skeptically, eyebrow raising slightly before nodding. She disappeared, and France stared at the spot where she was standing before he realized that he'd probably look a little crazy if he didn't blink every so often. He looked around and made eye contact with as many people as possible - nicely, hopefully putting down any feelings of threat they felt. A few moments later she reappeared, him following behind.

"François?! I heard your name and didn't think it was true! I don't believe it - how have you been? Nice to see you!" He looked the same. Same round, dad-like face, just salt and pepper hair and beard instead of the brown France remembered the last time he saw him. Firm but slight frame, smiling and trusting face. It was a relief compared to the chilly looks he received when he entered. France probably looked exactly the same. He closed the distance and when they met he wrapped his big frame around France's in a crushing hug.

"You too."

"Woooow, you're cold! You haven't changed a bit! Should I get you a drink?"

"No, that's alright. I need to talk to you. It's urgent."

He pulled away and held France at arm's length, studying the seriousness of his face. He himself grew instantly serious. "Of course, of course. Let's go in the back."

They shuffled past all the tables and stares and on his way past the maid stepped up behind him. He spun around quickly, thinking she was going to attack him or pick his pockets. "What are you doing?"

"May I take your coat?" she asked, simultaneously taking a step back. France instinctively gathered it around him. "Um, n-no, merci. I'm pretty cold." He nodded his thanks as weak repayment for overreacting, then followed the man to the back where he emerged from.

" _Mon Dieu_ , you're shivering! Let me get you a hot chocolate-"

"No, please-"

"I insist-"

"Don't trouble yourself. I won't be here long."

"Oh nonsense! It's no bother. Besides, you're staying the night!"

"No, please-" He disappeared, and though France felt bad about making him fuss, sitting there shivering was really making him excited for his drink. Soon a teacup and pot of the warm, pleasant-smelling liquid was placed in front of him, and he helped himself before he realized it.

Étienne watched him for a moment, allowing him a drawn-out sip of the drink before probing him.

"I really don't want to impose."

"Would I offer if you were? What do you want to talk to me about?"

He took another sip. " . . . Everything," France muttered as soon as he swallowed it. It was too hot, and burned his throat all the way down. "I need to know what's been happening in Paris."

"I was wondering where you've been," he said. "Thought maybe you were locked up or something. The Bastille gets fuller every day. You haven't been getting into trouble, right?"

"I've been in Versailles."

His gaze shot back to France, confusion furrowing his eyebrows. "Why were you in Versailles?"

"Long story. Anyway, everybody talks to the tavern owner. What's the word on the street? What's been going on lately?"

"I don't know. A lot of things. Hmmmm . . . " he trailed off, leaning back in his chair. "I guess I'll start with the penal letters. Every few days or so, Versailles issues out letters. Warrants for arrest, essentially. If you're on one, the guard barges in and arrests you, and hurls you right in jail. No trial, no chance to defend yourself, no nothing."

"Really? How many a day?" France asked.

He shrugged. "Maybe seven to ten, but that's only in the surrounding area. I have no idea about the other districts in Paris."

That could be bad. That could be _really_ bad for Louis. Who were the people he threw in jail? People like Robespierre? People like Necker? Or regular hardened criminals? If someone of great importance to them was thrown in prison, it could spark rebellion long before Louis could prepare. "Do you know what crimes they commit to be put on the letters?"

"No crime! That's what's I'm saying!" Étienne leveled a wide-eyed glance to France. "Are you saying you support them?"

France quickly shook his head. "No, not at all! I'm saying, if it's someone the people love, it's only going to anger them." He sipped his chocolate, quickly sloshing it around so it wouldn't burn his tongue again. Once he swallowed it down he asked Étienne again. "Are they  _talkers_?" he asked, emphasizing the word.

"Some of them. One of them was a Parliament member, too. Very  _very_ well respected, if not a crowd favorite."

"Hm," France grunted. "What are you doing, King Louis? What else?"

"What else . . . A lot of people are having issues with the exiled Parliaments."

 

 

_**October 8, 1787** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments** _  
_**France's Bedchamber** _

France opened his eyes and saw a face inches from his own. He jumped a mile into the air. " _Merde_!" he spat on impulse, instantaneously on guard in case this intruder attacked him. He shot up and actually put his fists up, and as he blinked his eyes into focus Louis started talking.

"It's past four in the afternoon."

" _C'est quoi ce bordel_?" France yelled.

"You've been sleeping all day. For the first few days I thought maybe you were ill, but then I realized those nightly excursions must really be taking a toll on you."

France froze. So Louis knew he was leaving at night. He looked up at Louis. "How did you know?"

"The guards have been seeing someone lurking around outside lately, and when I noticed you and my Spanish horses more tired than usual, I made the connection. Where are you going?"

"Actually, I have something to ask you first!" France said. "What is this _lettre de cachet_ business?"

"What?"

"I've heard-"

"From who?"

"Sources. I've heard from sources that there are handfuls of people being imprisoned daily because of different reasons! Without trial or any chance to prove their innocence! It's eight to ten people a day in and around Paris!"

"Are you going to Paris?"

"None of your business!"

"It absolutely is my business! Especially if you're stealing my horses to go!"

"Answer the question first," he sneered.

Louis sighed. "Don't be a child," he said, but the fire was gone from his voice. He clearly didn't want to fight. "Seditious speech is a serious danger at a time like this. There are people publicly criticizing Brienne, publicly criticizing Marie and I, and publicly criticizing our governmental system and how we run things. You somehow managed to keep your name away from their mouths and their suspicions while you were in Paris. Lucky you," he spat bitterly. "Speech meant to incite violence will incite violence. To protect myself and the stability of the monarchy, I've done what is necessary to imprison the people who would say such things."

"That sounds like you read that out of a standard-issue grievance or something! Did Parliament write it up for you? Louis, you can't just imprison whoever you want to, whenever you want to! No matter what people are saying! The people don't see that as helpful, they see you as their enemy!"

"What do you want me to do? Let people just say whatever they want against me and my policies? You and I both know what that will do to their attitudes!"

"As if they could get any worse! . . . Get out of my room. I want to be alone right now, okay? Don't talk to me again until I tell you I want to talk to you."

<p>&nbsp</p>

_**October 14, 1787** _  
_**Popincourt, Paris** _

The door to the tavern burst open.

From a third-person point of view, France watched what happened when he first burst through that door. In stormed six blue uniforms and tall, triangular black hats. Red facings and silver lace. The same uniforms he saw everyday at Versailles. A detachment of Louis' personal guard. The entire tavern grew quiet. The cold air forced itself around the whole space. Every conversation stopped, like ripples across a wave. Some people even stood up, hands on their guns, already on guard at the sight of the Royal Guards' bayonets. They strode in and stood proud and tall against the onslaught of harsh glares and sent their own glowers across the tavern. People looked away and looked down, and those strong enough to hold their gazes held them in fear more than challenge.

"We're looking for a Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy."

A chill stabbed into France's neck and spread down his back. He slowly sat back down, hoping his movement didn't call attention to himself. Surprisingly, and to his immense relief, no one's eyes or head swiveled to him, giving him away.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy?" he called louder, addressing the whole room. "By the order of His Royal Majesty King Louis XVI, you are to return to the Palace of Versailles, and to the service of King Louis XVI."

He slunk a little lower. Shit! They were going to think he was a royalist. They were going to think he was an informant. If anybody was angry they didn't show it. They saved him for a while longer. A few heads swiveled his way, but not enough to call attention to him.

" . . . "

"If he refuses to give himself up, by order of His Royal Majesty King Louis XVI, any civilians seen aiding or abetting Monsieur Bonnefoy will be found and charged with treason-"

France couldn't let that happen. "I'm here," he said, standing slowly. He left his place at the table and crossed the room to keep them out from among the other people.

"For the theft of two of His Royal Majesty King Louis XVI's horses, you are summoned back to your place at Versailles for immediate disciplinary actions. From there you will return to your post and duties as royal advisor."

France shook his head. "Monsieur Brienne-"

"You will return with us-"

"I'll return," he enunciated slowly, carefully choosing his words, "when I choose and how I choose." He couldn't think of anything better to say. He was stuck. They backed him into an extremely dangerous corner, shattering everyone's trust he earned over the last month. He was furious. He just didn't want to act out. Not now. Not while there was a potential for an innocent person to be shot or killed. Not while there was a chance he could be shot or killed in front of the people.

"By order of King Louis XVI-" One of them grabbed his shoulder roughly.

It was pure impulse. Years of battlefield reaction. He slid out from under the guard's hand and threw a punch to his chin.

 

 

He could've had them both on the ground in two seconds. He could've been bolting for the nearest door or window before they would even call for help. The urge to do something was like those snakes coming back, sending their poison coursing through his veins. He couldn't. He didn't know why. He just couldn't. No matter how badly the snakes burned, his arms stayed locked in their position behind him, gripped at the wrist and the bicep. Thinking about doing something sounded so momentous and exhausting of a task that he stayed still and silent.

They were walking him quickly, and he tripped several times when the dry seepage of his back cracked open or when they wrenched his arms back at the wrong angle. He got a second's reprieve while they waited for the porters to open the door to Louis' offices, then they drug him into the room. There Louis was, slumped over his desk with his hands clasped in front of his mouth. Face illuminated by the candelabra, dark circles rounding out the eyes. Powdered wig off, letting the brown color show through in one of the only times France ever saw him without it. Night shirt on; truly a worried and tortured soul.

France almost laughed.

As soon as he saw him, the spark exploded inside of him.

" _Laissez-moi_!" he yelled, struggling to pull his arms out of their grasp. Lucky for Louis, their grips strengthened and they held him back.

Louis misinterpreted his intentions, thinking he just simply wanted to get away because he was uncomfortable. He held up his hand, palm out in a gesture of peace to the guards. "Thank you, gentlemen. Release him, and leave us. I need to speak to him."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

They loosened their grasp and he ripped his arms away from them, dusting off and relaying his jacket. He stood up straight, he glared straight down his nose at Louis. He waited for their footsteps to retreat from the room. He waited for the door to shut before he let loose on Louis.

"What the hell was that?!" France yelled, crossing his arms. "Why did you send guards after me? Why did you bring me back like that?!"

"I'm sorry if I scared you-"

"Scared me?" he said, barking out a laugh. "You think your guards scare me? You think you at all scare me? No, no, no, you embarrassed me! You've isolated and insulted me! You effectively ruined every Paris connection I could've possibly had! Those people were my only authentic source of information. They were my only source of knowledge to the truth of the Third Estates' thoughts and actions! You idiot, don't you understand what I'm saying? Now I look like a stupid ROYALIST!"

"Don't talk down to me, France! I brought you back because I thought you weren't coming back! I've watched you leave and leave again despite my explicit warnings, still stealing my horses! And every single time I've expected you to simply not return. Anybody would have thought the same thing! And you can't leave me! I need you."

"And who said I was-"

"And are you not a royalist? You've told me you support the monarchy and want to keep tradition. Has your mind changed? Let me remind you that those letters apply to any subject in the kingdom."

" . . . Are you . . . are you threatening me?!

"You snuck away in the middle of the night! The butlers had to go in and find your bed empty and your window open!"

"You're ridiculous," he muttered. "Just leave me alone. I don't owe you anything!" He stormed out of Louis' office. "Now I'm abandoning you. Anything you do from now on you do on your own. I'm done."

"France-"

"I'm DONE! I'm leaving. Don't follow. Don't you dare follow me!"

 

 

_**October 27, 1787** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments** _  
_**Louis XVI's Library** _

"I've made a decision."

"About what?"

"All this inaction is driving me insane. And I'm sorry, but something needs done, and that will happen faster if I just give the nobility what they want. I am recalling and reseating the Parisian Parliaments."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"Okay. I'm done fighting you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The very first time I posted this chapter on FF.net, I had written France's saying of the Lord's Prayer (the Our Father) in Chapter 4 in French, and not in Latin. Upon posting it here, I did change the language, but my description of Mass before that still is inaccurate. These are the notes I wrote from the posting on FF.Net:
> 
> "So I was at mass this past Saturday, December 19th (I'm Catholic), and I realized I made a historical mistake in Chapter 4! Roman Catholic mass wasn't translated away from Latin to the vernacular languages until 1962, with the Second Vatican Council, or Vatican II. It would have still been completely in Latin, almost completely done by the priest alone facing away from the people, with little to no response from the people attending mass except for a few amens. Where I confused myself was in equating the Wycliffe Bible and the many different translations of the Bible to the vernacular to be the same as the translation of MASS, and that's not the case. Mass wasn't translated until Vatican II.
> 
> France wouldn't know the Lord's Prayer in French, because it wouldn't have been in French for him to know! He would have to know it in Latin (which I believe he WOULD considering the history of the Latin language and the Catholic Church to the nobility), and even then he probably wouldn't have said it in mass, only the priest would say it. That being said, I'm debating on whether or not I should go back and change it. I like the way the chapter flows and I like the idea that France would know it in either language after translating it himself, but I owe it to myself and my readers to make my story as historically accurate as possible and acknowledge my mistake. Let me know your opinion - change or no?"
> 
> At this point, I'm still debating on going back and changing my description of the Mass, since I already changed the language back to Latin. Because like I said, France wouldn't have said the Pater Noster, only the priest would have. I'm open to suggestions.
> 
> If this chapter seems rushed, or kind of . . . glossed over, that's a good thing! I want the readers to feel France growing more desperate, and less mentally . . . there . . . if that makes sense! He's literally running out of fucks to give. Let me know if you got that, or even if you DIDN'T so I have something to work on for a while!
> 
> I hope you guys liked this chapter! It was difficult to get a start on, but it's here now and it's getting down to the wire! We're a year and a half away from Bastille Day, which is when everything goes to hell! Thanks so much to all who bookmarked/kudos-ed/left a great comment! I love all of you!
> 
> -Keyblader
> 
> *******1/3/13 - This is REALLY important! For the next chapter: If you can listen to music while you read, type this URL into youtube and listen to it WHILE YOU READ THE PART THAT TAKES PLACE IN THE BASILICA OF SAINT DENIS! It's Gregorian Chant, which would have been sung in the Basilica while France went in. It adds a whole new level of authenticity that I think you'll really appreciate!******
> 
> watch?v=D5ubvYqOh1M


	13. Chapter 13

**_January 3rd, 1788_ **  
**_Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments_ **  
**_Dining Room_ **

Their festivities set France's teeth on edge. And no, he yelled, it wasn't because he felt odd! The whole party made him bristle with resentment, vexation, every unpleasant emotion ranging from rage to melancholy to exhaustion. Of all the things Louis could've been doing, he was throwing another party. Of all the things he could've been worrying about, it was the wines the staff was serving. He didn't deserve to laugh that strong, throaty, genuine laugh that France first heard a while ago. He shouldn't have been allowed to have genuine fun, drinking, partying, while France had it so bad. He didn't deserve his carefree life when all the others around him were keeping it afloat for him.

With each passing second France watched, listening to their superficial pettiness and chirping frivolities, his blood pressure rose until his glass shook in his hands. Each smile was a stab to his heart. Each chuckle or chortle or extra-air-blowing-out-of-their-noses made his back twinge until he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. He half-expected his head to start swimming. France's equilibrium was off. He felt like he had a mild headache that wasn't quite painful yet, but would be there soon. His nose was almost stuffy, but he refused to acknowledge it. He walked around aware, just not really looking at anything. Too wrapped up in his own mind and his own fronts he was putting on.

Sickness for a Nation did not bode well. At all.

His night just kept getting worse and worse. When Louis and Marie called their closest courtiers to dinner, they all arranged themselves according to rank around Louis at the head. France fully expected Louis to push him to the bottom since their fight, and he even made his way over there before he noticed the atrocity: they left the seat to Louis' right open. The seat of honor. Either Louis told them it was France's seat, or this was all some twisted, horribly ironic trick of Fate.

He couldn't leave, Louis wouldn't let him leave. For a while he thought about getting Louis to _make_ him leave. He planned on being nasty and confrontational, purposefully ruining their party for them. Unfortunately, his moral code wouldn't let him sink that low. He couldn't allow himself to be even more immature and petty than they were even if he tried. Besides, it wouldn't solve anything. Being a little shit to Louis and the guests wouldn't change the fact that he was throwing a party instead of dealing with severe, escalating problems. France couldn't change the fact that he was there and was Nationally obligated to tough it out until the last person retired for the night, or until Louis decided to be merciful. He bet they wouldn't pick up on his spite anyway. He'd only succeed in ruining their opinions and images of him. He couldn't give them any more ammunition against him.

No, rather than go on the attack, he put up his emotional defenses. He lined his parapets with archers to shoot arrows from his eyes in his glares. He put whole battalions of knights in plate armor, with swords and shields, in the courtyard and ward - defending his ears and mind from hearing and interpreting their words (directed at him or not). He shut and locked all the gatehouses, he laid planks of wood across the doors to keep any of his reactions locked down. He bolted and locked the door to the keep and holed himself in there to protect his heart from their poison so it could keep beating (even if it beat in fervid fury). He raised the drawbridge, closing his mouth tight and vowing to keep it shut. He made it a personal goal to ignore them. Only speak when he was directly spoken to.

It worked for most of the night, but France knew it wasn't because of him and his cloud of gloom, or his outwardly contentious, prickly demeanor. It was because of Louis. He and France hadn't talked, hadn't so much as looked at each other since France bolted out of his office. He couldn't tell - was Louis embarrassed? And if so, was he embarrassed by his actions or by France's in a second-hand way? Did he feel afraid to approach France? France didn't blame him if that indeed was the reason for his avoidance. France could say with confidence that Louis wouldn't have survived the encounter. Did he just feel awkward? Or not know what to say? In a way that sort of proved France right. There was no way to defend himself. Louis had nothing left to say except sorry, and admit he was wrong.

Either way, Louis' inaction kept France (and Louis) safe before the party, and it was the unsociable atmosphere he created around himself like a forcefield that kept all the partygoers and courtiers safe.

Until now.

The laughter died down and the conversation lulled, and it was hard for France to sit in the awkwardness and wait. He wanted to play a game with himself and try to guess who would say something stupid next, but without surveying the faces and eyes at the table it was impossible to guess who had that spark of idiocy in their irises. He resisted the urge to look, pretending to be heavily occupied by the veal on his plate. Patiently sawing through each piece on his fork for several minutes until he scraped plate five times, then shoving the piece into his mouth slowly. Chew deliberately. Swallow. Wine sip. Repeat.

Torture. As disengaged as he wanted to be, it was so boring! Listening to other people try to one-up each other was both entertaining and embarrassing. They didn't realize how ridiculous they all sounded, but he couldn't enjoy any of it, swearing to remain uninterested.

To his left, Louis' hand slipped into the upper corner of France's vision and snatched his glass off the table. France could only assume he took a sip, and while he did something must have come to his mind. "Mm!" he exclaimed, mouth full of wine. He tapped the table in front of France to get his attention, thickly swallowing. "Monsieur Bonnefoy?" Louis began.

Oh, what, he was talking to France again? After not even looking at him? Clearly they still hated each other - had Louis been working on his acting skills as well? "Hm?"

"Will you be joining us later for some party games? Once dinner is over we decided we'll be playing chess, throwing dice, uuuuum, what else . . . ?" he asked, gesturing to the rest of the table for help. "What else did we decide-"

He wanted to hold his tongue, really, he did. But in an instant he realized that he didn't have as much control over all that pent up rage as he thought. It was ready to boil over before he even realized how bad it was. France let his sass off-leash. "Oh, well that depends!" he said, falsely cheery. "What does Your Majesty _demand_ I do?" He would have normally looked Louis in the eyes, challenged him to a duel of wills, but the thought of it exhausted him. He kept his eyes on his plate.

Louis' hesitation was all he needed to know that he stumped him. He could have nothing to say, not after ordering France to make an appearance and stay at the party for dinner. "You may do whatever you like, of course," he muttered, unable to maintain his pleasant lie. The bright tone was gone. The playfulness, gone. France killed them.

" _Collateral damage_ ," France thought. " _If you're going to put up appearances make sure they can withstand bombardment._ Are you certain of that?" France questioned.

Something changed when Louis spoke next. Something that made France break his oath and glance up at him to make sure it was really Louis who spoke to him. "I have confidence that you will behave yourself. There won't be any alcohol there, at least, none that will be available to you, so you won't be tempted to do what you did that one night in 1781."

Was that . . . was that sarcasm? Did Louis just . . . what? France looked into his eyes, knowing the comment was rude, just too shocked to completely grasp how. There was a bite in his tone, a flat deadpan that France never heard before. Honeyed, injected with the right amount of sweetness so those on the outside of their relationship dynamic wouldn't understand the insult. France had no idea Louis could be that snide, that backhanded. That devious in his delivery (France certainly could have used it a thousand times before). His eyes were hard; France saw more metallic silver in them than fragile grey, sparked with a new, violent sort of life. For once his eyes were on the attack and France, despite his defenses, had no idea how to counter it. He found himself lost, unable to move, trapped by the ferocity of this normally gently disposed man.

He had no idea how long he sat there, frozen. Staring in dumbfounded confusion at this unknown person. He was only ripped from the snare when a few chuckles rose around the dinner table. Laughing at what Louis said. He looked around in alarm, meeting eyes with most of them for the first time that night. Their arrogance and pretension made him feel attacked. He imagined he looked like a kicked puppy, but he couldn't flip personas fast enough to defend himself yet. France realized: most of them would have been there the first time he let himself go at that party. That night in the summer of 1781 when he wore that ridiculous outfit and gambled away every damn cent he had in his pockets and danced like an idiot all by himself and got really drunk. And slept with that one woman, what was her name? Richelle, he remembered suddenly, as if it was important. Most of them would have been there, and most of them definitely remembered everything he did, based on their sneers and chuckles.

Empowered by the reaction he received, Louis smiled at everyone around the table. "Yes, we all know Francis loves his alcohol. That very same night he paraded around Versailles naked chasing one of Marie's courtiers, but we won't talk about that. He had a lot of wine . . . " he trailed off. The laughing grew louder, and France had to look away. Grabbing his wine glass, he tried to laugh, pretending he found as much humor in it as Louis and his cohorts. He failed miserably, lip curling into a pained sneer rather than a smile of any sort. His heart started to ache, his body felt heavy, like lead in his limbs. He just wanted Louis to stop.

"And just recently, Francis entertained diplomats from Spain and Prussia. Personal friends of his."

A few people found the fact that he was friends with a Spaniard and a Prussian funny, interrupting Louis to giggle. He even heard people repeating him with glee, "Spain and Prussia!" "What a combination!" Et cetera.

He pretended he didn't hear them. He pretended he couldn't hear their laughs, their snorts, their snickers. He pretended Louis wasn't leading his verbal lynch mob right next to him at the table. Instead, France swirled his wine, staring with mock interest at the spiral. The little red ring it left around the glass in its wake. He went to take a sip but Louis reached for him. France recoiled as if leaning away from a diseased rat. Louis still made his joke. "Woah, woah! That's your third glass just at dinner! Be careful you don't over do it . . . " He broke down, cackling at his own joke, joining the ensemble.

What a night of firsts. For the first time in his life, France wanted Louis to stop. talking.

In a violent, aggressive flashback France was whisked away to every single time he needed Louis' help in Parliament meetings. He could picture every circumstance. Every time he had to bring Louis back from the recesses of his own mind. Every time Louis let him stand there like an idiot. Every one word answer, every non-committal shrug. All the times he could've offered insight, argued for France's case. Every time he didn't, and let France flop.

Of all the times he could've spoken up. Of all the times he could've been talkative, could've made a point about something and stood firm in it, he chose now. And he chose these stories about France.

How could he say these things? How could he embarrass France like this? On purpose, humiliate him, make him feel this insulted, this stepped-on? He wanted to leave. He wanted to get away. He wanted to go to his room, remove himself from their spotlight, their hot seat. His legs itched, he felt like he had bugs in them, under his skin. Crawling, biting, scratching, itching. But he knew Louis' order would never allow it. His toes curled inside his shoe and he resorted to bouncing his leg uncomfortably.

Louis wiped his eyes, clearing his throat to calm himself down after his laugh. "Anyway," he said, suddenly changing his tone. "While his friends were here, _Bonnefoy_ ," he stressed, mocking France's name. France sneered in reply, but for once the sharp glass in his eyes failed to intimidate. " _Bonnefoy_ learned the hawd way why we don't dwink Wussian vodka in excess . . . " Louis flashed an arrogant smile, staring straight at France. " . . . Didn't you, Fwancis?" Cooing at him like a mother to her child. Baby-talking at him. A chorus of laughter erupted around the table. "He wound up drinking three bottles with them!"

Cries of astonishment, of, "Three?!" rose up around the table.

Why would he tell Louis that story? Why? He mentally berated himself, wishing with every fiber of himself that he could go back and just not talk to Louis that day, not start with him. Not let him see France in his vulnerable, drunk state. Not let him know France wanted to reach out to Britain. Oh, GOD, he might use that against France, too!

"That night just happened to be the one night I couldn't sleep, and I decided to take a walk around the Palace. I was in the Hall of Mirrors, just minding my own business, going about my normal proceedings when I look out into the gardens," he said, flicking his glass around as he spoke with his hands. "I look out the window right as he stripped naked and dove into the Latona Fountain!"

France raised his eyes and glared at Louis. "You know that's not how it happened," he snarled, hoping to put down Louis' humiliation attempt. He was covered up by the roars. Laughing, laughing, shifting in their seats. Rocking back and forth, all around him and Louis at the head of the table. All their heads swiveled towards him in one eerie motion, mouths all locked open to let their guffaws out at him. His cheeks heated up, he put his head down to hide it, throwing his elbow on the table and his hand across his forehead, covering his eyes.

"How the three of them got down the stairs unharmed, I'll never know! I got a full-moon look at Francis' bare bottom! The Spanish one passed out there on the ground, and the Prussian jumped into the fountain as well - fully clothed, of course! I've never known anyone who takes to nudity quite like Francis. He tripped trying to jump in and ended up sprawling over the cement barrier, one leg at a time!"

"Stop it." He swirled his wine harder.

"He's so inebriated, he sees Latona carved at the top of the fountain and decides he wants to make love to her, and proceeds to do it right there on the top of the fountain!" Louis burst into laughter again, that same guttural laugh France used to love. "By then the guards heard them. They were being so loud, I swear I heard them. I won't lie, I was a little bit jealous of their fun." The laughter quieted. Most of them were confused by Louis' statement but then he clarified, "That is, until Francis vomited all over the guard."

"Louis, stop!" France yelled, staring pleadingly into his eyes. Translating his embarrassment to his blue and locking it into Louis' metallic silver. His heart took a nosedive into his stomach, beating out of his chest. The walls cracked around him. They closed in on him. His chest seized, for every forceful exhale he couldn't take a breath in. "Please . . . " he whispered. The corners of his vision were turning black. His head swam. He didn't want anyone to see him this desperate, not while they were already making fun of him. Louis took an arrogant sip of his wine, staring at France over the glass. Shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

"Well, when you're friends with a Prussian and a Spaniard, what else would you expect?" he said.

"D-don't talk about them like that . . . " his voice sounded far away and small. He stood up, swaying unsteadily on his feet before grabbing the tablecloth to ground himself. " _Woaaaah_ ," he thought as his vision went completely black for a moment. He had to sit down. Collapsing back down, he tried to look normal by tossing back the rest of his wine. As he lowered his head back down his nose dripped. A splotch of red hit the napkin in his lap, and he wiped it with the back of his hand, staring numbly at the blood trail left on his hand and finger.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy, is that true?"

"No."

"So how is life at the Palace now that you've become a freeloader?" Louis asked.

"A freeloader?"

"France is my adviser, yes, but just recently he swore off of helping me, as of someone swearing off of the opera during Lent. Now he simply lives here and takes advantage of the hospitality of Versailles."

"Shut up." Did he just call him . . . His glass crinkled in his hand. "You made me . . . "

"You know what the best part is?" Louis giggled. He said it loudly, like he wanted to address the whole table, but leaned closer to France like he was sharing a secret. "You are just as arrogant as the rest of us. You criticize me constantly. You walk around like I'm the problem. You act like you're so much better than me. You act like you're so much better for France than me. You and Brienne, always ordering me around, always being know-it-alls. You might think you know what's best, but you are just as ineffective as I am. Everything you do fails. Everything you try doesn't work. If you know 'so much about France', why can't you even help yourself? Why is it you keep sinking lower and lower?"

France's glass cracked. Shut up, shut up, shut up-

"The truth is there's nothing you can do. You wasted as much time as me. You watched me twiddle my thumbs and did nothing. You are no better than me," he repeated. "You are no better than an eighteen year old, ill-equipped, irresponsible man who has no idea what he is doing. You just have a more eloquent way of doing nothing. You wrap it up in passionate words and pretty sentiments, that's all. Just you wait. Despite all your valiant efforts-"

He slammed his palm on the table. "Say ONE MORE THING!" France screamed, daring him.

" . . . You. Will. Fail."

France snapped. His rage boiled over. He squeezed his glass so hard in his clenched fist it shattered, raining shards and blood across the table. Others around the two of them gasped in alarm, throwing their chairs back.

He grabbed his knife and lunged at Louis. Gripped a fistful of his cravat over the corner of the table, then stood up and dragged Louis to the floor. France snarled in rage, drawing his arm back and plunging the knife into Louis' chest. He screamed out, mouth and eyes locking open in shock. And every stab France relished in the sick squelching sound-

"Francis!" Louis yelled, waking him from his daydream with a start.

Wait . . . He was back in his seat. The napkin was still in his lap, he hadn't even moved. He didn't attack Louis? He looked and sure enough, the knife was still on his plate. He looked and sure enough, Louis was still sitting calmly to his left. No stab wounds in sight. France gently placed both trembling hands on the table cloth, making sure that where he was and what was happening right now was real and that he was really out of the dream. "W-what?"

"I asked if you would be joining us later for some party games."

"No," he blurted out. He sniffed thickly, remembering his nose, and quickly wiped at it with the back of his hand again, staring in confusion when his hand came away clean. "No, I, um . . . " His other hand was in tact as well, no cuts or shards of glass anywhere. Wine glass still full where he left it. Turning both of them over, he couldn't understand what he was looking at. Why he was still sitting where he was, why he saw what he saw, and did what he did, and everything was still . . . He looked up at Louis, locking eyes with soft grey. Soft, faded grey. Not sharp silver. Everyone else around the table was calm, staring at him with pleasant expectation, awaiting his answer. Not accusing, not laughing.

It never happened. It was all a daydream.

He felt all the blood drain from his face. He ran a slow hand through his hair, ripping out the ribbon.

"France?" he asked in alarm, happy face falling. He didn't even realize he called France by his National name. "Are you alright?"

Was he? That was a scary experience. A scary, humiliating experience. His heart started beating thickly again, the room felt like it was going to collapse at any minute and he was going to be crushed. He stood up, trembling knees barely holding him up. He couldn't tell what he said or what he didn't say and where the daydream began and where real life ended and he had no idea what happened.

"May I be excused?" He stared pleadingly at Louis, praying with all of him he saw the desperation in France's eyes. "Please?" he tacked onto the end.

Louis stared at him for another second, then nodded. "Yes, of course."

 

 ** _February, 1788_**  
_**Le Château de Versailles**_  
_**Royal Chapel**_

France knew he wasn't alone in the chapel. He hadn't been alone in the chapel since he received Communion. His heart sensed the visitor. It hiccuped in mild annoyance the moment someone interrupted his solitary mass. He heard the tip-toed footsteps when they entered. He felt the eyes on his back the whole time, watching him kneel and pray and stand when the cardinal motioned for him to. Scrutinizing him. Judging him.

" _Alright, place your bets, France!_ " he thought to himself. " _Who is it, Louis? Brienne?_ " There was no reason for anyone else at Versailles to talk to him anymore. He put his money on Louis. That was who he wanted to talk to the least, and considering his luck was poorer than thirteen broken mirrors, he had no reason to give himself the benefit of the doubt.

He thought Louis was too embarrassed to talk to him since their fight, but ever since his daydream - could he call it a daydream? - he was the one feeling awkward. He stabbed Louis. Murdered Louis. And whatever fear he saw in France's face when he woke up scared him as well. He knew Louis had questions. And if he had a choice he would avoid explaining himself at all costs.

" _Benedícat vos omnípotens Deus - Pater, et Fílius, et Spíritus Sanctus, Amen_." The cardinal made the sign of the cross above France and he crossed himself as well, reaching as far as he could for his forehead, chest, and shoulders with his elbow locked to his side to keep his shoulder still.

" _Amen_ ," he muttered.

Almost immediately the footsteps began their odyssey across the marble floor towards him. Fast-paced and pounding, filled with purpose. The hair on his neck stood up, the urge to shudder attacked his neck, sending a spasm down his cut that frayed each individual nerve of his raw skin. He squirmed violently before he could stop it, arching his back. He managed to choke down the scream and gasped weakly instead. Closer, closer . . . He couldn't help but feel like they were going to attack him. He was in an extremely vulnerable position, on his knees with his back turned. He desperately wanted to look and see who it was before they snuck up on him, but he knew if he did that he would have to talk. To ward them off he knelt back down on the pillow and folded his hands, launching into the first prayer he thought of.

" _Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum_." Closer and closer, so heavy on the marble they even shook the pillow under his knees. Interrupting his thought processes. " _Bene-_ . . . " No, wait, was the _benedicta_ the next part? He ran through it again from the beginning, but the clap, clap, CLAP getting louder and louder scared him. Who was it? That didn't sound like Louis or Brienne's steps. Who was it?! " _AveMariagratiaplenaDominustecum-_ "

The footsteps slowed down as they drew level with him, and the person who owned them stood next to him. Didn't speak, didn't move. Just stood there. Enticing France to him. He had to know who it was. Despite himself France paused again and forced a deep, calming breath in and out of his lungs. Once he felt sufficiently prepared he looked up. Brienne! What a sigh of relief, he noted, actually sighing. He could talk to Brienne. France kept his eyes on him, waiting for him to start talking, but he was looking at the alter. He looked displeased, face drooped in a deep frown that added wrinkles to his face.

For some reason, France couldn't help but feel like the man was displeased with him. He looked like a parent about to scold their child - authoritative hands folded behind his back. Chin up, eyebrows furrowed. As if he knew France's true intentions for coming to mass. He decided to ask Brienne about it, and call himself out before Brienne had a chance to. "Is it bad that a majority of the reason why I came here was for a change of scenery?" France asked, returning his eyes to his folded hands.

If it were possible, his eyebrows furrowed deeper. "Uuuum, I-"

"And why are you walking so loud? You're distracting me."

"Ah, you forget I was a clergyman before a statesman. Chapels, hallowed grounds, and holy places are my domain. My natural habitat, if you will." France heard the smile in his voice. "Finish your prayer," Brienne said, kneeling next to him on the stone. "I'm impressed you know the Latin."

" _Hmph_!" he chuckled. "That would be Charlemagne's doing. I've had centuries to learn it. "

Brienne folded his hands as well, closing his eyes. " _Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus-_ "

"106 years. 106 years at Versailles, and the chapel still isn't old. Look at this place," he said, unfolding his hands to gesture around with his left arm. "The openness, the way the columns seem to wrap around you like a hug. The homey feeling. How echo-y it is in here. I love it."

"Beautiful," Brienne agreed flatly.

"Even at night, it's always bright in here with all the white stone, and look at the cherubim reliefs carved into the columns! They're all different. The designs on the floor catch my eyes and don't let them go. No matter where you look there's always something to look at. The gold on the alter gives it an ethereal quality you won't find anywhere else in the palace. I wish I could find the words for it but all I can come up with is inspiring."

"But is that the only reason why you attended a mass?" The disapproval was almost tangible. Shame sank France's heart, immediately replaced by irritation. What did France expect, other than disappointment? He was discussing his poor church habits with a man of the church.

"I came because I'm sick of the monotony. I'm exhausted but don't want to lie in my room anymore. I need fresh air but don't want to go outside to the gardens anymore. I've tried every other room in this palace. The chapel is the only place I can be alone and think - or not think if I don't want to! The problem is that I'm not using it for the purpose of its construction. Is that bad?"

" . . . Mm. Perhaps a bit," he grunted, sighing tiredly. "But I cannot say with finality what pleases or displeases God outside of His word in the Bible. It is not my place to speak or judge for Him. I will say this: mass isn't something that should be done half-heartedly. It should be a spiritual renewal. A plea for forgiveness, and in turn a strengthening of your faith and relationship with God and your willingness to serve Him."

Okay. Then this was where France ducked out of the conversation. "What do you want?" he asked, changing the subject. "I hope Louis didn't send you to get me back. Surely he told you of my - what did he call it? An abandonment? A defection? Desertion?"

"He didn't call it any of that."

"Oh, come on! He must have blamed it on me somehow. Lay it on me. I can take it."

"He didn't blame you at all, France. In fact, he seemed apologetic when he told me."

"Did he apologize outright?"

"Well no, but-"

"Did he explicitly admit blame in any way?"

"No. Please don't do this-"

"Unless he commits to getting me back, I refuse." France paused, thinking about the wording of his sentence. A light switch flipped on in his mind, and he knew something changed. He knew he reached a startling revelation that would have helped him thirteen years ago.

He always wanted to know Louis, understand him. He always wanted to be close to him, to know how he worked, how he operated, what went on inside his head when he was thinking. France made the connection as he said it, like someone just pulled the blindfold away from his eyes. Like he finally had an overhead view of a maze. He had a new revelation, a new clarity and point of view that he never had before, and as he applied it to everything he and Louis went through, it worked seamlessly.

Louis operated - no, _thrived_ \- on assumptions.

He never said anything specific. He let people put words in his mouth and make assumptions on what they think he said, and he used it to his advantage. He played with and molded peoples' perceptions of him until he had them thinking what he wanted them to think of him. The moment they stopped and realized they didn't actually know what he said, he backed away. He grew defensive, he pretended he was attacked from the beginning. And nobody could prove him otherwise, because he never said anything concrete to begin with.

The trick was to make him commit. Make him say something he couldn't back out of, or change last-minute. France remembered thinking those exact words at different points, "Make him commit." And, he thought, each time he usually got done what he wanted done. Rather than be comforted and relieved in his revelation, a bitterness planted itself in France's heart and bloomed into a tree of indignation.

It was a monumental discovery, but unfortunately, France couldn't use it. He already removed himself from the situations and opportunities in which it would be useful. It came too little, too late, and France didn't have the desire to act on it.

"But he wants you back. Believe me when I tell you that I try to help him and guide him myself, but he doesn't quite trust me without you. He feels directionless."

"Welcome to my world," France commented.

"Listen to me. You're all he talks about. 'What would France do?' 'Would France approve of this?' 'Do you think you could possibly get his opinion?'"

France actually laughed. "Don't lie to me," he smirked, dragging himself to his feet. A dizzy spell threatened him, touching his forehead and making him lightheaded, but he slapped the hand away, regaining control.

Brienne got up as well. With much more ease, France noted jealously. "It's not a lie."

"If Louis were that desperate, he'd have swallowed his pride by now and sent someone to apologize." He would have committed.

"How do you know that's not what I'm here for?"

Oh, please! France clicked his tongue and glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. "That's not why you're here." He didn't get that feeling from Brienne at all. Cornering France for this discussion wasn't Brienne's style. He would've found somewhere where they could debate and negotiate. Right after mass wasn't ideal. Not for someone who respected mass like Brienne. France shook his head. "That's not why you're here," he repeated. "For _your_ sake, I hope it's not," France said, staring deeply into Brienne's eyes.

Brienne paused, staring back at him. "You're right," he admitted. "That's not why I'm here."

"Either way, we still have a problem, Monsieur! I hope you haven't come to bother me with affairs of state," he warned, spinning on his heels. He pushed past Brienne and strode towards the back of the chapel.

Brienne, those loud footsteps, followed him. "I just thought you'd be interested in the proceedings of the recent Parliament meetings."

France snorted. "Couldn't care less, actually."

"You don't care?"

"Nope! That's why I left you two. I'm done with national politics."

"Now _you're_ lying!" Brienne said, growing irritated. "There's no way you're going to let Louis run rampant with your country! You can't 'not care', you've said it countless times! Your Nation won't let you!"

"Don't presume you know anything about me, or about being a Nation! You have no idea what you're talking about!" France hissed over his shoulder.

"We need you-"

"I don't care! I'm not doing this to be some defiant child! I'm not doing this only because I want to spite Louis! I'm fed up with being walked on! To say the least!" he added. He threw open the chapel doors, just enough for himself to slip through. Brienne had to shove them open further, and France quickened his pace when he heard his grunt of exertion.

"They've applied for more loans!" he yelled to France's back.

"Don't care!" he yelled over his shoulder.

"They've been approved!"

France only waved dismissively.

"And you remember those letters? The _lettres-de-cachet_?"

"Nope!"

"Apparently, Louis has locked so many people up that the appeals reached the Parliamentary table! The national table! The Parliament outlawed them."

"Congratulations."

"France, please-"

"No!" he screamed, whirling around. He marched back to where he left Brienne, at the door of the chapel. "You don't know what you're pleading about! You don't know why I left, no matter how much Louis told you! He thinks it was because of some isolated incident, but that only encompasses about this much of it!" France held up his hand and put a centimeter of space between his outstretched thumb and pointer finger. "I refuse to do Louis' job for him, then let him treat me like garbage! And you're not going to treat me like this either, begging me to come back when you don't know the whole story. I don't need your sass right now, I don't need your judgements! All the time I get away from you, and from Louis, and from the Parliament, and the courtiers, and the failures is a relief! I will not let you interrupt my peace."

"And what are you going to do instead?" Brienne yelled back. "Sit here and sulk? Lie in your bed for weeks on end, occasionally leaving to go misuse the chapel of a faith you don't even have anymore?!"

"Faith never applied to me in the first place! I relied on luck, and all the luck that used to work for me has stopped! I had faith in Louis for thirteen years, thirteen years too long! I need to be reasonable now! I need to be logical! I need to be smart, and I need to keep my damned sanity!" France jabbed his finger into Brienne's chest. "Don't criticize me for doing what I had to do!"

"I'm criticizing you for quitting this late in the game! When it's you who will ultimately suffer for it, not him! I can understand your contempt of Louis. But how could you not even respect yourself enough to keep going?"

"You don't know what you're talking about! Do you know how hard it is to have to make a conscious choice between your mind and your body?" Brienne opened his mouth but France's lip curled in a snarl. "No, you don't!" he growled. "I've been alive for centuries, I've seen monarchs come and go and never - never! - in all my years, in all my dynasties, has it been this bad! I'm losing touch with fucking _reality_!" A lump formed in his throat, threatening to crack his voice. But he had to keep going. He had to unload on the only person who would listen, who would try to understand despite this being a culmination of a National and human problem. Whether or not Brienne could do anything for him, he had to talk. He rubbed his face tiredly. "I'm losing my grasp on what's real and what's not real and I'm confused and I'm scared!"

His eyes started burning, his nose running. When he wiped it with his hand a shocking red trail led from his wrist to his fingernail. Perfect! Just what he needed to top of an excellent day. Tears blurred Brienne in front of him, welling up so fast they spilled immediately.

"My human is so scared my _Nation_ is scared! And th-" His voice cracked. He swallowed thickly to hide it, forcing a disgusting mixture of blood and mucus down his throat. He sucked in a breath, hoping to continue, but the air went into a sob. "That - you can't - I don't - you'll never." His heart ached so badly it radiated to his shoulders, and he wanted to rip it out of his chest. He wanted to claw it out, tear skin and crush bone and rip out the thing that was hurting him so deeply. He blinked and the hot, salty tears cleared away for a moment before the next round was there, ready to be released down his cheeks. Like his eyes were open floodgates. "Don't act like you even have any semblance of my pain, or my fear! Do-on't pretend you- you can quantify any of my emotions! Keep your - " He paused for a hiccup. "Keep your criticism to yourself! Keep your stupid pleas to yourself!" He broke down completely. His hand muffled another sob that heaved his shoulders. "Oh God," he croaked. He didn't want to be there anymore. On every level and interpretation of there. His heart felt heavy, he just wanted to grab it in his fist and squeeze all the emotion out of it and just disconnect. His legs didn't help him either. He collapsed to the floor, right there at Brienne's feet. He felt his very own heart crack like porcelain, and the emotion and tears flooded the rest of him.

"France-?" he asked softly. He reached out to rest a comforting hand on France's shoulder without realizing it was his injured one. France ducked the gesture and swatted Brienne's hand away. Brienne backed away, already apologizing.

"I'm sorry, France. I'm sorry. I should've known. I . . . I'm sorry. You're right." France heaved himself to his feet to leave but Brienne rushed forward and grabbed his arm. "Sometimes I forget that you have two personas you have to balance. I became inconsiderate. I forgot that your job . . . I should respect your decision. I know you have deeper reasons than spite, you've always been deeper than that. And I know you're scared, and I know you feel like you're losing control. Look at me."

France thought he heard pity in his voice, and pity was the last thing he wanted. He didn't want anyone feeling anything towards him, good or bad. He just wanted to be alone. He shook his head and pulled his arm away from Brienne, but the man's grip tightened.

"France, look at me." No, wait. It wasn't pity. It was solemn, yes, but there was a quiet intensity that pulled France's eyes to his like they had a rope between them. "I swear to you, I'll do my best to help you. Have faith again, and put it in me. I'll help France, I promise. It will be okay. You'll be okay."

 

 

 _**April, 1788** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments** _  
_**France's Bedchamber** _

_'Spain,_

_You know how when you have a headache, you drink a tonic? You know how it wears off after a while? And you know how, since you spent so long pain-free, when the pain comes back it's ten times worse than before?_

_Well thanks for acting like my tonic, but my headache's back. And it's back with a vengeance._

_Saddle up your horse, buddy. We're going for a ride:_

_After you and Prussia left, Louis, Brienne, and I went back to work on the tax situation I mentioned. They didn't pass through the Parliaments. With no more ideas and nothing else to do we had to give an extension to the system already in place. It was so stupid. Why even try in the first place, you know?_

_In the meantime I corresponded with - and do NOT judge me - Britain. I tried to invite him over so we could do kind of what the three of us did. I wanted us to get drunk off of cheap English rum and gin and I wanted to watch Britain slosh around like an idiot. Regrettably, he didn't come. He told me that he's going through tough times too. George III is sick and he's too busy dealing with it to leave._

_I can't lie to you, Spain. There are no secrets between the Bad Touch Trio, so I feel okay admitting to you that his refusal hurt a little bit. I understand that Britain is dealing with a very serious problem, but it still hurt. I would have really liked to see him. And fight with him! It could have felt like old times, for just a little bit._

_After that I decided it was time for me to tune in to the streets again like I did when Louis banished me to Paris. When I felt lost the people always had something going on, you know? They always had something to do, they were always helping their own cause. They had a certain fire and energy I couldn't find anywhere else, especially not at Versailles. I snuck out nearly every night for about a week and - please don't judge me for this either - I stole the horses you gave Louis to make the trip (sorry). An old friend of mine in Paris filled me in until the regulars trusted me enough to include me in their talks._

_I didn't exactly figure out a whole lot. Usually they talked themselves in circles with what they wanted to do and what happened in Versailles and what they should do. All of it was speculation and social justice theories that couldn't be proven unless in put into practice, and most of them were too afraid to put it into practice._

_Louis caught me after a week, and he even tried to stop me from leaving again. He placed guards outside my doors assuming I was using the doors. Though, I honestly think he was more upset about the horses than he was about me being potentially mutinous. He made a really big deal about the stupid horses._

_I didn't mean that. The horses aren't stupid - they're actually very bright animals and very pleasant._

_The guards didn't interrupt my schedule in the slightest. I went out for another week. Until! He had the guards in front of the palace wait for me and tail me to Paris. I was making the rounds in and around the tavern when they barged in and took me back by force. I accidentally (whoops) punched one of them in the jaw before they got a hold of me and "subdued" me._

_Imagine the shock on everyone's faces when their new friend turned out to be a freaking royalist, right? A high-ranking royalist, too. I'm pretty sure I heard their trust shatter like glass. They drug me back to Louis, who was still screaming about the horses, and I unloaded on him. I was so upset with him for ruining every Paris connection I could have possibly had, and I told him I was done with him and I was done trying to help him when he didn't appreciate it anyway._

_I've sort of been lazing around the Palace ever since. I mean, I can't go back to Paris and I have nothing else to do._

_Like I said, the headache's back._

_I'm getting sick again. I know I am. I can feel it. I don't quite feel right as of late. I feel like I'm not really here, like I'm watching myself go through the mundane motions from someone else's point of view. I'm getting dizzy spells again, a bloody nose, and my back hurts a lot and my temperature's been fluctuating. Not largely, just enough that I know something's wrong. I'm not telling you this to worry you at all. But I know you care about me and I knew you'd want to be updated.'_

 

France's own comment about lies in the letter made his stomach do a little flip, but there was no way he was going to tell Spain about the vision he had of himself stabbing Louis. Spain would already be mildly concerned by the things France wrote, and if he knew France was hallucinating he'd go into full-scale panic mode. The acknowledgement of someone else's panic made him understand for a fraction of a second how serious it was, but he quickly dismissed the thoughts. He'd be fine.

 

_'Since I'm not busy, and I left Louis with Brienne, I was maybe hoping to invite myself to your place. What do you say to the beginning of May?_

_Let me know your thoughts on any of this, especially May. I need to get away from here or I swear I'll go crazy!_

_I don't want you to pity me. In fact, your pity is the last thing I want. Just humor me, and let me pretend everything's normal for now until I decide on a course of action._

_I really appreciate you two being here for me. Au revoir, and tell Romano I said hello!_  
_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

 

 

He wrote a near replica to Prussia, switching out the names. Too drained to come up with more sincerities he didn't already cover. He was a little bit excited to hear each of their opinions and each of their different takes on it anyway.

"Tell me the truth. How bad does it look?" France asked.

"I haven't even gotten the bandages off yet, Monsieur," the doctor said. "It looks angry, though."

"Great. Well get them off quick. It's going to hurt and I'd rather it be done as soon as possible."

"Actually, there's a lot of seepage here. It's probably lubricating the bandages. They may come away easy."

 

 

_'Britain,_

_I'm terribly, horribly sorry for the late reply to your beautiful letter! It was such a work of art! Especially the beginning. The descriptive and poetic language you used read smooth off my tongue like butter. Unfortunately, I was so busy I couldn't immediately give it the attention it deserved!_

_I understand your inability to leave your country. I bet it's hard right now with His Majesty sick. How sick is sick, if you don't mind me asking? Sick enough for you to get his affairs in order, or just mildly-worried-about-him sick? I sincerely hope it's the latter. I say this in earnest: if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. I'll do the best that I can to help. I know that no matter how much we despise each other (or pretend to, I'm not quite sure what it is we do. Let's keep it that way. It's invigorating), you would do the same for me._

_The last time I wrote to you, things were looking up. But I have to tell you they took a dark turn for the worst._

_I won't regale you with the details, partially because I don't want you knowing my business, and you need to learn to keep your snubbed English nose up in the air and out of everyone's business. I just wanted to let you know that my invitation to you was an open invitation, and it will remain open for as long as you want it to. In fact, I propose a trade! An Open House Act, if you will. Considering we reestablished peaceful (necessary?) trade relationships between us with the 1783 Treaty of Paris, I propose we apply it to our personal relationships. You come over whenever you want with sufficient warning and I go over there whenever I want with sufficient warning. At least consider it, please. You do not understand how desperately I need an excuse to escape Versailles for a while._

_If you decide to accept my invitation now make sure you procure as much rum, gin, and liquor as possible. Whatever will get us the most drunk the fastest. Give me a week's warning and then, quite literally, show up. Don't mind Louis or Marie if they treat you poorly. If you have any questions, all you need to know is that we're fighting, Louis and I. And if you decide to come please pleasepleaseplease bring Canada along with you! I haven't seen him for almost twice as long as I haven't seen you._

_Remember: if you're going to be a smartass, first you have to be smart. Otherwise you're just an ass. Work on that._

_Cheerio!_  
_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

 

 

The doctor was right. The bandages pulled right off.

"Wow. This is really seeping! And bleeding! What did you do to it?"

"Nothing! Tell me how bad it is! Has it torn completely open or is it just a bad scratch?"

"It's a little of both," he said hesitantly.

"Lovely."

 

 

_'America,_

_I've tried to do what you said. I've tried to heed your Chief's advice, the thing about unforgiveness. There's just one problem with it: he doesn't account for repeat offenders._

_What are you supposed to do when you've forgiven and forgiven and forgiven, but they continue to wrong you? What if they know they're hurting you but they continue to do it, taking advantage of the fact that they'll be forgiven? Are you supposed to continue to be their doormat on the grounds of forgiveness? Or are you allowed to hit a point where you refuse them?_

_I don't know if there are any right or wrong answers, and I don't necessarily want to think too deeply into it, I just think I've hit that point with Louis. It's so strange. My anger at him is . . . strobing. Sometimes I'm furious, and it's easy for me to blame him, and just the thought of him makes me want to kick him in a very sensitive area. Other times I'm just exhausted. And I can't even muster the energy to care about him in the slightest. It's like he's constantly moving in my mind. Every time I think about him he's different. Sometimes I get images of an innocent, naïve Louis who doesn't realize what he's doing to me and to France. Sometimes I get the malevolent Louis, who's messing me up because he's purposefully too lazy._

_Whatever. I've decided to cut all ties with him._

_I have a favor to ask of you. I want you to keep an eye on that Treaty of Alliance we signed together in 1778. I'm not sure why, but I just feel comforted knowing you're contractually obligated to watch my back. Not that anything's going to happen - please don't think I'm trying to be ominous or anything. I don't know what I should be doing right now, personally or Nationally. I'm just trying to keep my loose ends as close to tied as possible so that when I have an opening to do whatever is necessary by my Nation I'll be prepared to._

_Does that at all make sense?_

_Either way, this was a great opportunity to say hello. Pull u_ _p that treaty!_

_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

 

 

"I think you'd be pleased to know that only the top few inches of it have broken open."

"Woooow, yes, that's very comforting," he retorted sarcastically.

"The whole thing has a red irritated ring around it, and around that is a speckled purple and red bruise that is actually quite alarming."

 

 

_'Canada,_

_Bonjour._

_This is probably going to be the most awkward letter in the universe, partially because I don't even know how to begin to apologize to you._

_I think step one would simply be to say that I am so incredibly sorry. For everything. For anything and everything I've done to you. I'm so sorry, with every fiber of my being I am sorry, and I wish I could go back and redo all of it. I wouldn't treat you so poorly, and I'd show you how much I appreciate you more often than I did._

_Okay, step two: right the wrong. I'm going to explain everything to you, just like I promised so long ago. I know it's not going to make everything okay again, and I won't pretend it's going to make you feel better - in fact, it probably won't. I've sat for a long while trying to find a sequence of events that turns into a happy ending here, but after exhausting my mental database I've resigned myself to the fact that you're going to hate me, and hate me for a long time. If that's how you feel that's how you feel, and I understand you feeling that way. I'm mostly upset with myself for being selfish enough to have done this to you._

_So, let's go back to 1778, after I signed that Treaty of Alliance with America. Louis didn't quite grasp the magnitude of the Treaty, or the funds we'd actually be pouring over there. He took Parliament's word over mine that it was the best decision, and signed off on it without looking at it. Do you know what their trump card was? That it would be a way to one-up Britain. I think back on it with even more bitterness than when it happened. If they wanted to one-up Britain they could've just cooked some food, or something. How ridiculous._

_Even after we sent troops and funds to America, Louis and Marie kept spending and spending. The two of them, and America's revolution effectively bankrupted me. No matter how many times I tried to appeal to the two of them, nothing changed. They just didn't quite understand what was happening._

_I spent 1781 through 1786 in Paris, because Louis removed me from my position as his advisor and kicked me out of the Palace. I spent a majority of those years in my bed, suffering through political, social, and economical illness. Fevers, tremors, headaches and dizziness, weakness, vomiting, the whole nine yards. I sent you a letter during that time, but it was one of those brushing-off letters. I probably didn't put any of your concerns to rest._

_I took action towards the tail end of those years, thriving off of street gossip and Third Estate happenings and reactions. I even went on a few small riots. I started to help myself, or at least I gave myself the illusion that I was helping myself. Whether or not it was a placebo effect doesn't matter. It helped._

_In 1786 Louis called me back to the Palace. His attitude was different by then. He was ready to roll his sleeves up, and get down to business. He seemed extremely willing to listen to me and do whatever it took to fix the situation. I think he started to feel like his kingdom was slipping through his fingers, but it's impossible to completely identify Louis' motives. Together with him and a new finance minister, Calonne, we all convoked an Assembly of Notables to hear grievances from each estate and enact a new tax system Calonne worked up. We ultimately failed. I found out later he was borrowing and applying for loans behind my back anyway. Louis fired him._

_The people didn't want the Assembly of Notables, they wanted the Estates General, which is just another governing body that acts as a direct representative Parliament. The nobles supported the decision, and because they did, I haven't gotten a single thing passed since the spring of 1778. That's a bit of an exaggeration, but you get what I mean. When you leave Britain and have a government of your own you'll understand._

_Just recently, I tried to go back to the people and do what I did in the early 1780s. Unfortunately, Louis had other ideas for me. He knew about it but still let me sneak out for about two weeks before sending guards after me and arresting me in front of a room full of people. They made sure all of them knew I worked for Louis, too. They screamed up a storm about me returning to my place next to him. I'm pretty sure all their jaws hit the floor._

_I. was. pissed._

_When they drug me back to the palace I let loose all the pent up anger I was holding in, and I told him off. And actually, I think I may have quit my job as his advisor this time? I'm not really sure. I didn't use those words outright but the two of us haven't talked since and he's relying on his finance minister to help him. The funny thing is that most of the time when I lose it like that, I regret what I did. Usually I've said something I didn't mean, or I've done something I shouldn't have done, but not this time. Even though I was practically seeing red, I was consciously aware of everything I did. And even though I know abandoning Louis and Brienne to their devices may effect me at some point, I feel like I did right by me. I feel like a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders, and I can breathe again. Despite not knowing what to do with myself around Versailles, I feel free. I feel like I could do whatever I wanted. I have the power to do whatever I wanted. And in a way it's comforting._

_So, there. That's what happened. That's everything that happened between our last major correspondence._

_Now, step three: ask for forgiveness._

_Here's where I end the letter. It's for you to read and interpret and react to. I will respect your decision no matter if it's in my favor or not, but I want to ask you to please, please forgive me. I was in pain, and exhausted, and irritable, and falling apart as a country._

_That doesn't excuse my actions, I know it doesn't._

_I hurt you, I am sorry I hurt you, and I promise with all of me, it will not happen again. If you give me another chance I will prove to you how much you mean to me, and how my selfish days are behind me._

_Please, please find it within yourself to give me another chance._

_Je t'aime, mon enfant._  
_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

 

 

"It seeps and seeps," France told him. "Day in, day out. And the upper part that's broken open bleeds. My jacket ends up wet from it. Do you think you could wrap it with thicker bandages?"

"Should we also make my visits twice a day, instead of once?"

"Yes, I can't keep ruining jackets."

"I'm not sure I could do much else for you except smooth a pain killing paste on it and wrap it more thickly. When the paste dries it very well may dry out the seepage and help it start healing."

"Do whatever you have to do." Again, there was that placebo effect. Even if the remedies didn't exactly work physically, the psychological effects could be just as uplifting.

"D'accord. Otherwise, you're a healthy man!" France almost snorted. "It's confounding me. You should've healed in a month but here we are almost two years later."

 

 

_'Austria,_

_I hope my letter finds you, Holy Rome, Italy, and Hungary in good health._

_I'm not sure I ever thanked you for stopping over that one day. "You saved my life," seems like a dramatic overstatement considering our circumstances, but it's true. You saved my life, and no words in any language - not yours, not mine, not the National language - is going to accurately convey my gratitude. It's too great._

_I hope someday I can repay a fraction of the kindness you showed me. As a start, I've commissioned Louis Bas to go to to your house and build you his new Grand Piano. The one with an inverted westplank, and key-action based on the work of Bartolomeo Cristofori. I used my own savings for it, not the crown's money. I think you'll enjoy playing it._

_If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to let me know. I'll do my best to help you out._

_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

 

 

"Hmph! Here we are."

 

 

 _**May 3rd, 1788** _  
_**Saint-Denis, France** _  
_**Basilique Royale de Saint-Denis** _

Dagobert I. King of the Franks from 629 to the 19th of January, 639. Mérovingian Dynasty, France's first dynasty.

He didn't remember Dagobert. He didn't remember any of the Mérovingians. He was only a baby when they reigned. France's working memory began with Charlemagne and the Carolingian Dynasty somewhere around 800, when he was a toddler by human age.

Dagobert had an ornate tomb. Fitting for the man who built the church of France's patron saint, Denis. And though he received dirty looks from a few monks, France felt it was worth climbing to the side of the altar to view it. It was a tiered structure; Dagobert lay at the bottom, on his side with his hands folded peacefully in rigid stone. A soft-looking pillow propped up his head, and his eyes were carved open with a warm and inviting smile on his face. Thick beard on his face and thick hair spilling out the sides of his crown. The crown itself was plain, just a circlet with four fat fleur-de-lis looking pegs sticking up around it. It didn't look like there were any jewels on it. He wore plain clothes as well - robes and a burial shroud. France couldn't tell if his feet were bare and the stone wore away, or if he had cloth shoes on. His scepter was right by his side.

Mary and Joseph stood upright on either side of him, and the next tier read left to right. Dagobert lay on his deathbed with a bishop blessing him. As it moved left the scene transformed into Dagobert leaving the bishop to step into a boat. Little devil-looking creatures completely surrounded him. They crawled all over themselves and all over the boat to get to Dagobert, but he remained calm, his eyes closed and his hands folded in fervid prayer. The next tier read right to left, starting with Dagobert exiting the boat, hands outstretched to another bishop and other holy figures. The creatures around him cowered away and sprawled about, falling out of the boat to get away from them. They looked shock-stricken, repelled by the holy powers before them.

The top tier featured angels and bishops, stretching out a cloth between them. Dagobert stood on the cloth, naked except for his crown. They hoisted him up to the sky, his head was inclined upwards, and trumpeters heralded from Heaven all around him. Carved angels encircled the whole scene to a taper, and above them, in the top triangular part, was Jesus. He was being lifted up to Jesus.

The rest of the house-shaped tomb had two spires on either side. Crockets peppered the spires and the roof, simultaneously drawing France's eyes and confusing them. A plant of some sort that looked like wheat to France bloomed at the top. Symbolic of love and charity. Dagobert's sculptors did a beautiful job, and he hoped it did Dagobert's pride and majesty justice. It certainly made France proud to claim him.

" _Requiescat in pace_ ," France muttered. He felt the urge to touch the man. His smiling face looked so comforting and France needed it. He reached out and gently traced the fingers of his folded hands, smiling back at him. " _Do you remember me_?" he asked. " _I'm much older now than when you knew me. Look how much I've grown. I don't remember you, but I know that I know you. You feel like an old friend._ "

If France went in chronological order, Clovis II was next. He kissed his hand and touched it to Dagobert's one last time, then turned back to the church. Clovis the Lazy. "What a title to have," France thought. And all this time he thought that was Louis XVI's title.

Clovis II. King of the Franks from 639 to the 27th of November, 657. 18 years of regency in 20 years of life. His tomb was on the same side of the South Transept as Dagobert, though France wasn't sure exactly where he was. France braved the scowls of the monks again and climbed down the altar stairs, walking along the statues until he found him lying among the last of a cluster of effigies.

He and Charles Martel, a Prince of the Franks from 718 to 741, lay on the same slab. The two of them were almost identical. Same crown as Dagobert, passed down the line, though France could see now that what he thought were fleurs-de-lis were actually clovers. Jewels embellished the band but only maybe five or six. Nowhere near the number on the French crown now. They both sported the same thick beard and mustache, they both maintained Dagobert's hair, straight with a single curl at the bottom. They rested on identical pillows, wore near identical robes, identical cloth shoes, both their right hands rested across their chests, left hands around their hip area. Short scepters resting beside them.

The contours of their faces were a little different, France decided after looking closely. Clovis had a flat, sharp nose while Charles Martel behind him had a hooked, bulbous nose. Clovis' face was a little longer as well.

" _Who were you two_?" France asked them silently. " _Were you active rulers, and loved by your people? Or was I a fussy baby?_ " The thought brought a slight smile to France's face. He couldn't imagine going through the pains he was going through now as a baby. He would've screamed non-stop. God speed whoever took care of him back then during a rough time period. "So ends the Mérovingian Dynasty," he whispered, kissing his fingers and touching both their hands. At least, the Mérovingians who were buried in the basilica. " _Requiescat in pace._ "

France backtracked to Pippin and his Queen Bertha, next to Dagobert just on the floor, not the raised altar. Pippin the Younger, first of the Carolingian Dynasty. King of the Franks, 751 through 768. He looked the same as the rest. Their crowns grew extremely ornate by France's standards back then. The greater-detailed clovers looked textured and authentic, and Pippin added more jewels to his, each in their own individual sectioned off part of the band. Designs and embellishments sculpted into the metal around the jewels of Bertha's added an elegance to hers versus the boldness of his. The two of them had full length staves in their left hands, and their right hands were across their chests. He clutched a fistful of his cape, while her thumb hooked into the clasp of her cape.

"King Pippin," he said, testing the name out on his tongue. " _According to history, you were the first to expand my territory. First into the Rhône, which I still own, then into Italian Lombard territory. I still own Narbonne, too. Roussillon, Toulouse, Clermont, Bourbon, Poitiers. Still mine, thanks to you. I am proud to call you mine, and I'm proud to call myself yours._ "

It was amazing, how despite the similarities and traditions of style and funeral dress, the sculptors still managed to give each of France's kings their own distinct personality. None of them looked as friendly as Dagobert, but Clovis II had a squinty-eyed judgmental look while Charles Martel had a close-eyed, solemn peace. Pippin and Bertha looked very stern and serious, like they were looking off into the distance and couldn't decide if they liked what they saw. "Merci, mon Roi et ma Reine," he said, touching both.

Carloman I partially succeeded Pippin, with Queen Hermentrude. She wasn't his wife, she was the wife of Charles II. As France moved directly across the nave to her burial place, he contemplated why they put her next to Carloman I. Probably because Charles II wanted his own brass bust, not some stone one. Pffft! Royalty, he huffed inwardly. They were set up as mirrors. Her left thumb hooked in the clasp chain of her cape, his right thumb hooked in his. In their opposite hands they grasped short scepters. She was smiling, and she had soft looking, plump lips to add to her bright face. He was almost pouting in comparison. Same hair as Pippin, but his crown carried shield reliefs on it and embellishments, not divisions.

France didn't stop for Carloman. When Pippin died and split his kingdom among him and Charlemagne, France ended up in Charlemagne's care. From what France heard later, they hated each other. They both felt they had a legitimate claim to the entirety of the Frankish kingdom, and Carloman raised an army to attack and depose Charlemagne himself. They were on the verge of war when Carloman died. Thank God, France said unapologetically. His poor caretakers, seriously!

Charlemagne ascended next, and from him onwards France remembered interactions with his kings. Though most of them are fleeting memories, or incomplete ones. They always lack something, like sound, or setting, or color.

France recalled one specific blur that was his coronation. On the 6th of October, 768 France was five years old, give or take. Snippets of green countryside passed by the window of their carriage on the way to Noyon. A still image of Charlemagne, multiple layers of blue tunic and white fur spilling around him, making him look bigger than he already was. France fussed the whole ride - he remembered being miserable. At one point Charlemagne waved France over and said something to him. France could see his lips move in the memory but couldn't hear him. He had short, unruly, thick hair and a scratchy, rough beard, and France remembered being afraid of him. He remembered thinking that Charlemagne looked a lot like all the images he'd seen of Jesus Christ. Somewhere in little five year old France's mind the word image got lost, and France remembered equating the two. Thinking at one point he _was_ Jesus.

He beckoned France over to his side of the carriage. France slid from the seat and went over as close as he wanted to get, which wasn't very close. Charlemagne lowered his head to stare at France and used one finger to call him closer. He closed the distance hesitantly, afraid of talking to Jesus. When France was close enough Charlemagne picked him up and sat him on his lap. The next thing France remembered is his hand poking into France's peripheral, pointing to different things in the countryside.

He remembered knees of adults running around, left and right, nearly frantic. He remembered crouching behind a pedestal and vase, thinking he was so clever as he hid away from the adults chasing him. Running from the dressy tunic and tights he had to wear. Taking them off over and over until they caught him and dressed him again.

_He wanted to go home, God, he was so bored! The people at the front droned on and on and on in a language he didn't understand anyway. He didn't want to be there, he wanted to go to sleep. He leaned his head on whoever happened to be the poor soul to his right. Looking across the aisle he met eyes with a baby staring right at him. Rich, dark auburn hair and gold eyes, a cute little curl poking stubbornly out of his smoothed hair. France smiled at him but he immediately threw a fit, screaming and crying. While his nurse hushed him, suddenly another baby poked his head out and locked eyes with France too. He had light red hair and gold eyes, an identical curl sticking up the other way. France didn't want to upset him as well, but luckily he smiled at France._

Playing on a swirly red and black rug with two little kids named Saxony and Austrasia at the reception. They told him they were just like him, and he liked playing with them.

Charlemagne, grey bearded, holding his sword out to France, laughing when he couldn't lift it.

He built schools, he devoted serious efforts to reading and writing and made France learn to read and write, in a time where it was reserved for the monks. He controlled the Viking invasions regularly. He was a great man, directly involved in every part of his kingdom. A great general and leader to France.

_Charlemagne wasn't up yet? That was strange. He was a man of the morning, always waking France up._

_He pushed open the doors of his bedchamber and saw him laying there, still asleep. France could surprise him! He took a running start and vaulted the bed, crashing onto the soft covers and pillows. "Boo!"_

_Charlemagne didn't move._

_"Hey!" France said, tapping his arm. "Hey, hey! What are we going to learn today? Charlemagne!"_

_Why wasn't he answering? "Charlemagne! Hey!" He continually called his name, and the tapping eventually turned into a full-on frantic punching._

_He didn't move._

_Realization crashed down on France like stone cracking._

Charlemagne wasn't buried in the Saint-Denis Basilica. France couldn't pay respects to the man who felt like his father.

France skirted King Charles II's silver bust without stopping. Despite being Charlemagne's grandson he was completely off the mark. His title was Charles the Bald but France preferred Charles the Cowardly. They thought France's attitude towards him was just childish disrespect but it was much bigger. It was the translation of his peoples' attitudes. He ascended the Frankish throne and inherited the Holy Roman Empire in 840, but split the Holy Roman Empire up amongst his two other brothers. Louis the German wanted more territory than he got so he invaded, and Charles II was so unpopular with the people and nobles that he couldn't raise an army to defend France. He fled to Burgundy and abandoned France while he sought refuge with the bishops there.

_"Where is His Majesty?!" the courtier asked him._

_"I don't know!" France sobbed._

_He grabbed France's shoulders and shook him, shook him hard. France squealed in pain, but he did not relent. "You tell me where he is RIGHT NOW, boy, or I swear to you I'll have you racked!"_

_"Stop-"_

_The man backhanded him._

The only thing that saved France from Louis the German walking in unimpeded and taking his throne was the bishops' refusal to crown him as the Frankish King. France did have to share some land, though. The Treaty of Mersen in 870 made sure of that, seven years before Charles died. He lost the treaty when those looters destroyed his home.

Aaaah, the first Louis to be buried in Saint-Denis! Louis III! France went back over by Pippin, where Louis III's effigy shared a slab with Carloman II. Louis' addition to the crown included tear drop reliefs under each clover and two dots on either side sectioned off. He maintained the beard/hair combination. Carloman II was the first to break that tradition, opting to go beardless. They both had their right hands resting on short scepters, but Louis III's left hand rested on his chest while Carloman II's rested at his hip, clutching his robes. He had an impish grin on his face, while Louis III looked like he had his eyebrows raised in alarm.

_France made himself as flat as possible, planting himself to the wall behind the tapestry. The running footsteps entered the room behind him, and he tried to quiet his giggling but it was impossible. "Fraaaaaancia! Where, oh where could he be? I can't find him anywhere!" King Louis couldn't find him! He stumped him- The tapestry pulled away from the wall and that same exact alarmed look greeted France. "Found you!"_

No sound in the memory; France couldn't recall the sound of his voice, but he could read his lips.

_He did it. He slew the dragon! France posed confidently over his victory, propping his foot on King Louis' stomach. Suddenly King Louis jumped up, grabbing France's foot with a growl, and France squealed in fear. And the cycle repeated itself._

Louis III and Carloman II ruled together, sharing the throne. Louis' dates ran 879 through the 5th of August, 882, and Carloman II's solo years ran 882 to 884. Over the course of their rules France gained Mâcon. Louis' death was particularly bad.

_France woke up to screams and wails. Commotion and banging and multiple shouts of instruction at once. He ran to see what everyone was fussing about, peeking into Louis' room from the doorway in case he got in trouble for being there. He couldn't see anything, peoples' legs were in the way._

There was a gap in France's memory, but the next scene he had in his mind was hearing Carloman cry.

_He was . . . crying? France couldn't comprehend a grown man, let alone a king, crying. Whatever was upsetting him was bad. He knew he had to comfort him so he ran into the room, shoving peoples' legs aside. As soon as he saw the bottom of the robe he grabbed King Carloman II's hand, but he pulled away. "Away, Francia! This is not a sight for a boy's eyes." His voice was thick with tears. As much as he wanted to look before, now he was too afraid to look. Everyone was crying, crying, crying, and France was scared of whatever it was that could make King Carloman II cry so hard._

_He looked anyway._

_King Louis III's face was ashen grey. His eyes half-rolled back, dead, and glossy, staring right over the edge of the bed at France. Mouth open and tongue slightly protruding in an undignified and embarrassing pose. Blood all over his pillow and sheets from his head. France didn't want to look anymore, but he couldn't look away. Blood wasn't supposed to come from there and King Louis wasn't supposed to look like that and someone needed to close his mouth and tell him to stop looking at France like that._

France's mind didn't like what he saw. To him back then, when someone died they were a skeleton. That was it. Their body magically transformed into a skeleton. He had two distinct memories of Louis' body. The real one, and a glittery, obviously childish image of an ashen grey skeleton lying in that bed staring with its empty sockets at France. Nightmares plagued France for at least twenty years after. Louis had been thrown off his horse, and his head hit a stone door lintel. He cracked his skull open. There was a lot of blood. As in, a lot of blood. France ran from Louis III's body, but everywhere he tried to run he couldn't escape the trail from where they drug him inside.

France suddenly remembered - he was thrown off his horse chasing down a woman. He was going to make love to her. "Hm," he chuckled. " _Now we know where I get my amorous charms, no?_ " With Carloman II's death, so ended the Carolingian Dynasty in the basilica. " _Requiescat in pace_ ," he said, leaning over Carloman to rest his hand on Louis'. " _Thank you for giving me the semblances of a childhood after Charlemagne._ "

Somewhere after him in the late 890s Paris became his capital, and France grew quickly into an older child. He was 7 or 8 years old by the First Crusade.

For the next hundred years, France's monarchs weren't buried in the basilica.

The Capétian Dynasty, Louis XVI's Dynasty, ruled next, and still ruled. From 987 to France's present, with Louis XVI's Bourbon House being a branch of the Capétian Dynasty. Hughes Capét had an effigy at one point, but it was melted down during the 100 Years' War for armor and weaponry. At the time France had been in support of it, but now that he was feeling sentimental and had nothing to show for him, France regretted it.

Robert II the Pious would be next, then. France crossed back to the North Transept to his statue, but . . . Mmmmm, no, France decided. No stopping. King of the Franks from the 30th of December, 987 to the 20th of July, 1031. With more recent history France's dates became more exact. And, France's memory filled in besides little blurbs here and there. Robert was with his wife Constance, his third wife after failing to court a Byzantine princess, and divorcing an Italian noblewoman. France wasn't sure if he ever loved Constance. His beard went back to the tradition, but his hair curled so tightly it was almost comical. He had one straight, perfectly cylindrical curl trailing down the sides of his face, and his beard conformed naturally into three little miniature curls. The hair cascading from his crown was just as curly. His crown's clovers were two layers, a round frilled backdrop with the three leaves in front on the same band as Louis III. His left hand rested at his hip while his right pointer finger hooked over his cape clasp.

The fact that he looked so relaxed and contemplative was hilarious to France, considering how mean he actually was. How scared France was of him.

France learned that Nations couldn't die under Robert. They didn't call him the Pious for nothing. He hated France, absolutely hated him. They grew up together since France stood beside his father, but when he came of age and physically surpassed France he saw France's perpetual youth as an abomination, an affront to God's authority over eternal life. France was a practicing Catholic before he ascended (mostly in belief, a small percent in necessity), but it wasn't enough. He had to repent, and Robert was going to make sure he did. He had to cast out the demon inside of France and cleanse his spirit. In Robert's 35 years of regency France spent around 25 of them in his religious captivity. He drowned France in Holy Water, he burned him at the stake with the other heretics, he tortured and killed France over and over in an attempt to "save his soul".

Constance was a saint to him when she could be. She made sure he was always well fed and clothed and treated well when not in Robert's presence. At one point she let France sleep in her quarters with her, like a child plagued by nightmares. The two of them talked seditiously for years, planning France's escape in secret. Robert never suspected a thing, not from Constance.

It was only fitting that in 1025, France fled to Burgundy with Constance's help, to the protection of Robert's estranged sons. He joined the three sons in a revolt, and it was the first time France ever partook in battle. They ultimately succeeded, helped along by Robert's death, and his second son, Henry I, succeeded him. The same plate armor France wore during his battles with Robert's armies rested in the chest in his room.

Indignation and malice rose in his heart, bleeding into his chest until his heart was hot with it. He glared at Robert, knowing his stone eyes were dead but feeling comforted by finally having the strength to look him in the eyes. " _I don't miss you_ ," he spat to Robert. " _I haven't even thought about you once in 700 years. Does it bother you that my 'unclean spirit' is defiling your resting place? I hope it does, you monster. I hope your soul is happy, wherever it wound up spending eternity._ " He didn't have a single touch of sincerity to his voice. Turning to Constance he immediately changed his tone. She deserved respect. Her crown held the first semblances of the fleur-de-lis, only it was much more ornate than the one France knew now. Each leaf of it was swirled in on itself and the middle was cut out. She clutched a bible in her left hand, right hand over her tummy. " _Your face is still a light in the dark, after all this time. A beacon of hope to a child who resigned himself to hopelessness. You are a beautiful, caring soul. Thank you for being my soul's salvation. Requiescat in pace, Regina me._ "

France stayed in the North Transept for Henry I's effigy, just crossed to the other side of a cluster to stand beside him. Henry I still quarreled with his younger brother despite their unity against Robert II, and he decided to placate him with the Duchy of Burgundy. Fine by France at the time; he honestly just wanted to shut all three of them up by then. Ah! France thought suddenly: Under Henry I was France's first encounter ever with Britain - well, England at the time. Henry rushed battalions and arms to the aid of William the Conquerer under France's personal command. By 1047 they secured William's position of power in England, and France spent an extra week with him, celebrating with him and his armies.

_"How are you called?" he asked him. "Do you prefer the name of your land, or have you a common name?"_

_"You know I am a National person?" France asked in blatant shock._

_William laughed heartily, clapping France on the back and handing him another cup of wine. "But of course! What other child handles the battlefield the way you do? What other child carries themselves with the pride of a whole country behind their eyes? You have such a . . . powerful gaze. With the weight of wisdom and awareness beyond your years. Not unlike my own England! See, I feel something when I look at him, and I feel who and what he is. He may be a baby but I see the same . . . consciousness . . . in him that I see in you."_

_Another Nation! France blurted out, "Can I meet him?!" before realizing how rude it was. He clamped his mouth shut, averting his eyes. "I'm sorry."_

_"What is it you like to be called?" he asked again._

_"I prefer Francia, my country's name."_

_"Francia, follow me." Little England had messy blond hair that stuck up in literally every possible direction. He had strangely dark eyebrows that didn't at all match his hair color and he looked to be about seven months old. He had crushed emeralds in his eyes and when they slid to France's face and met his glassy cerulean, France knew England felt a connection. His eyes widened the tiniest bit, he fussed in his wet-nurse's arms. William was right. Those green eyes were so alive and alert. They flicked all over the place, as if he was looking at something no one else could see._

_"Hello!" France cooed brightly in Old French. "Hi, little England! You're so cute!" He held out his pinky finger and when the baby grabbed it, France gently shook up and down. "My name is Francia!"_

_England's eyes flicked from France's pinky to his face, to his mouth, to his eyes, and back to his pinky. Like he was making a decision on France right there. France held his breath, hoping little England liked him. He hadn't met any Nations since Charlemagne's crowning, and he did not want to ruin this one. After what felt like an eternity, England smiled at him. For a moment. Giggled once._

_Then dissolves into sobs._

He knew from the start. He must have known.

In 1060, their alliance ended. In 1060, England and France began a collision-course, never to be set straight. Ever. Ugh. And now France would rather die than ally with The Kingdom of Britain.

As soon as France got back he pestered Henry incessantly about meeting other Nations. He BEGGED to be brought along to his meeting with Holy Rome's Emperor Henry. Frankish Henry granted his requests, and France met with a small Holy Rome in 1043 and two other times.

Henry I reigned as King of the Franks from the 14th of May, 1027 to the 4th of August, 1060. His effigy lay right next to Constance, and he himself shared a slab with Louis VI, the Fat. And, France noted, they both brought back the beard/mustache combination! His beard was longer than the norm of his other Kings. He had a long, flat face, and the beard made his face look even longer. Both hands bare, he almost looked like he didn't know what to do with them. Louis VI, on the other hand, had a scepter in his right hand, and his left clasped his cape chain. Aha! Another Louis!

Just one look at Louis VI's chubby face brought a smile to France's. He was always happy, always animated, always celebrating something he found beautiful. It could be as mundane as the birds chirping outside, or the way the sunlight spilled into his room. His jolly soul was infectious, and combined with his energetic policies, France had some of the happiest years of his life. France wasn't large in land, but Louis VI kept what he owned out of English hands. They tried to claim both Normandy and Gisen but he refused to surrender them, leading forces into battle himself, fighting alongside France. He even expanded the crown's land claim in Frankish lands itself; he repaired and rebuilt Frankish infrastructure from the bottom up, expelling corrupt and false claimants to his Duchies and feudal titles all across his land. He earned France's utmost respect as a warrior and a diplomat. He drafted and signed over 50 charters in his reign, and even allowed his Queen to be politically active. Over 45 charters bear her signature along with his.

His reign was like a breath of fresh air. Before Louis VI he walked around with a grey film over his eyes, in a half-asleep, half-dead state of mind. Louis VI brought life and vitality back into him, and when he was finished, France was reborn, refortified. Stronger, happier. He and Louis shared many fun and fond memories, especially when he entertained guests.

" _You were rather fat,_ " France remembered fondly. " _Do you remember me? You taught me to be beautiful._ "

Smallpox were the _worst_. The average person fought for six to twelve days. Nations fought for as long as the outbreak. France's smallpox outbreak was short that time, but he kept the boil scars for about 80 years after that. All throughout Louis' reign he walked around with them. Any adult person would recognize he was a disease survivor. But the children of court didn't, and they made sure France knew they found it hilarious. France was a child, and he was embarrassed and upset and scared that he'd have to look like that for the rest of his projected future. They peppered his skin like a thousand freckles. Not an inch of his body spared.

_"Your Majesty, you sent for me?"_

_"Francia! Come here!" he said forcefully, back turned away from the doorway. Staring out the window._

_France immediately assumed he was in trouble. Always. His heart skipped a beat, already imagining what kind of punishment he would be dealt for whatever offense he committed. He took a cautionary step into the room. "Yes, Majesty?"_

_"Does that look like here? I said come here!" France's breath came in short gasps. His legs wanted to stop, a chill like a knife stab entered his neck and numbed them. He had to force himself to move, one step at a time, until he drew just behind Louis._

_"Yes," he rasped from his dry throat. He swallowed thickly and tried again. "Yes, Majesty?"_

_"I was looking out the window this morning, and I was struck with a revelation! Want to know what it was?"_

_"Yes, Majesty."_

_"That I rule the most beautiful looking country and Nation in the whole world!" He checked France's face for his reaction, but already France disengaged, dropping his eyes. He wasn't beautiful. His face was all scarred. He gently rubbed his face and felt each little dent, eyes on the floor. Louis smacked his hand away and pulled France in front of him. "Look out the window, lad. What do you see?"_

_France did as he was told, and his eyes roved the scene. But there was no one out there in the dirty courtyard. Just some horses tethered. "No one, Sire. Nothing."_

_He threw his heavy arm around France's shoulders. "No, no, don't look for people. Look for nature first. I'll tell you what I see: life! Nature! Beauty! A charming country! The country of Francia! You need to see it too. Use your senses, use your imagination! Close your eyes. Inhale deeply. What do you smell?"_

_" . . . Sewage."_

_"Oh, come on! Smell beyond the castle!"_

_France laughed. "'Smell beyond the castle?' That sounds like a campaign mantra. What does that even mean?!" France said._

_"It means do you even realize how beautiful you are?"_

_"What?"_

_"You're a bright boy. Try to follow me here. Look out the window again. Look at the clouds above you. Watch them roll across the sky and make shapes on the ground. Listen to the birds singing for us this morning. Let the wind outside blow your hair back like they're wheat stocks. Listen to the animal sounds of the town outside these castle walls. Well water splashing. Dogs barking. Listen to life in it's purest form! YOUR life in its purest form!"_

_France imagined himself on the edge of a cliff, with the seas of Normandy splashing onto the shores, creating a relaxing backdrop to the beautiful view. He could see in every direction and when he turned around he saw the rolling countryside Louis spoke of._

_"Now listen to people." France put himself in the middle of Paris. "Shouts in the market places, carts rolling along the paths. People flicking water off their washings. Somewhere, a woman is bringing a life into this world. Someone is brushing their horse, someone is fighting for their life against a sickness. It's LIFE, Francia! It's vitality! It's absolutely beautiful, this world we live in! And you can claim all of it. AAAAAALL this, it belongs to you!" he said, gently poking France's heart. "This beauty, it's yours, boy! These people that call themselves Franks are yours. The rolling country side beyond Paris and the busy cities and the streams that babble and the Seine, it's yours! Even- even I am yours, though don't tell Queen Adélaide that, okay?"_

_France laughed, nodding at him. "Okay."_

_"Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"_

_"Yes, Your Majesty."_

_"I want you to understand your own beauty! I'm trying to get you to take ownership of yourself and everything that makes you YOU! You have a beautiful and unique soul, Francia! I don't think you realize it. I don't think you grasp everything attractive or handsome about you! You need to learn to love yourself. Even if your face isn't beautiful it doesn't matter. Because you can claim all these other things and make yourself beautiful inside! You're beautiful. Now tell me you're beautiful."_

_"I'm beautiful."_

_"Now tell me you're wonderful."_

_"I'm wonderful."_

_"Tell me King Louis is a little bit fat but I still love him."_

_"King Louis is . . . more than a little fat but I still love him-"_

_He scoffed. "Abuses! You hurl abuses at your king! For shame - come here," he said, squeezing France to his side in a squishy but loving hug. "You're my Nation. I love you, too. Remember: if no one else in this world loves you, I do. Adélaide loves you."_

Every day. "Tell me you're beautiful." "I'm beautiful." "Tell me you're amazing." "I'm amazing." "Tell me King Louis needs to shed some poundage but he's still very handsome." "Nothing will help King Louis be handsome." Eventually he didn't need Louis to prompt him anymore. Eventually he believed himself.

Another clip of a memory sprang up.

_"Francia! Drink this! Tell me if it's good!" he said, sliding his chalice across the table to France. He caught it and a dark brown liquid sloshed over the side._

_Ew, it looked disgusting! France sniffed it and the alcohol burned his nostrils. He scrunched up his nose against it. "Ugh! This smells like bad wine."_

_"Well you're not wrong. It's mead from our English friends across the water. Drink it!"_

The next thing France remembered was retching over the chamberpot in his room with Adélaide gently rubbing small circles in his back.

France barked out a laugh before he could help himself. So loud it echoed through the whole church. He slapped his hand over his mouth to quiet them down. That ridiculous man made him try everything. Nine times out of ten it ended badly for the two of them. God, he missed him. He skirted Henry I to Louis' side and tried to quiet his laugh, but all he did was let it out in a snort. His shoulders heaved, and when he took his next breath he dissolved completely into cackles. He imagined Louis laughing at him too. "You're ridiculous!" France laughed, rubbing his arm. "I miss you, you fat lard!" France looked around and met eyes with a few monks staring at him. One started to move, and France knew he was coming over to him. He quickly covered his mouth and cleared his throat, turning around with a serious look right as they bore down on him.

" _Monsieur_! You need to be quiet. This is a church. A place of quiet reverence. You cannot disrespect the people buried here, or the Brothers who live here. Abbot Mathieu was nice enough to grant you entrance to the Basilica. Please do not abuse your privilege."

" _Oui, Frère. Désolé, Frère._ "

Louis VI's reign carried France into the 12th century. From the 1st of December, 1081 until the 1st of August, 1137, France was graced with his jovial presence, and from the 29th of July, 1108, he was proud to call that jovial presence his king. " _I'm still beautiful, in case you were wondering. I'm practically a work of art! Look at my face, my body. My clothes. I'm still the most aesthetically pleasing Nation on this planet!_ " he giggled playfully. " _Requiescat in pace._ " He leaned over him, kissing him once on either cheek. He rested his hand on Louis', unwilling to move on from the delight that seemed to radiate from his tomb.

Louis VI's first son, Prince Philip, was a horrible child, and when France found himself able to turn away from Louis VI, he was immediately struck by the negativity emanating from Philip's effigy. Disobedient, reckless, stubborn, nasty when spoken to. Louis VI set such high standards and Philip ignored every one of them for the sake of spiting his father. France didn't want to say "luckily", but luckily Philip only spent two years as a co-ruling King. He fell off his horse in Paris in 1131 and never woke up. Beardless once more, both his hands grasped a short scepter as if his life depended on it. His carved eyebrow lifted skeptically, France could picture that lip curling into the perpetual sneer he wore on his face. He made his crown more ornate than before - jewels between two pearls around the whole band. The clovers looked more like five petaled flowers, giving it a childish elegance that suited his ignorant soul.

He shared a burial place with Louis VII's second wife, Constance of Castille. It was only fitting that after such a strong rule as Louis VI, Louis VII's seemed horrifically bad. Louis VII didn't have an effigy in Saint-Denis, and Constance's represented her modesty. Her crown returned to simplicity. A jewel with two pearls on either side, sectioned off. What made Constance's unique were the two clovers side by side in the front, not the normal one. Tight undershirt, full length tunic over it with a belt, and fully covering head wrap and cape. She clutched a bible in her right hand and a scepter in her left. The hair that France could see in the front of her wrap was just as thick and curly as he remembered. Her eyes and mouth almost wore away, though. France spent as little time around her as possible. She was so closely related to Louis VII by blood that France thought their marriage immoral, and treated them both poorly. He didn't stop for her or for Philip.

Skip Philip II, not buried in the basilica, and by Louis VIII's Princehood, by 1215, France's connections to England grew closer as the marriages and family ties caught up with them. France's name changed from Francia to France, and Louis' title became King of France. England was a small boy by then, France was about nine or ten, and they fought verbally at every single diplomatic meeting. Fought dirty on the battlefield.

_"I see their commanders' banners behind them with the cavalry. But where is their Nation? You said he's here, yes, France?_

_"I don't see him either," France admitted. "But I know he's here. I can feel it! He's blond, bright green eyes! You can't miss him!" He found King John's flags and searched his immediate circle of horses, but nobody made France's heart burn. "Maybe he turned yellow and fled? Like the cowards the English are?"_

_Louis laughed. "Cowards. Right you are. Yellow bastards. We outnumber them. It won't be long until they all flee from Normandy's soil. This is French land! This is MY land!"_

_Those around Louis raised a rallying battle cry, and anyone else close enough to hear took it up as well, lifting swords, javelins, and shields. As inspiring as it was, it couldn't rally France's troubled heart. He knew England was here, and he would find him, damn it! He would make him pay!_

_He scanned the battlefield and the bodies instead. Maybe England acted as a foot soldier. There was a line where the forces clashed, and France noted proudly that the French covered more ground than the English. There were more bodies on France's half of the battlefield. More English blood on French soil. He didn't see that blond hair lying anywhere, screaming or clutching at any wounds, but many had helmets on. His heart twinged, he grew frustrated. People fell left and right. Arrows stuck from people in every direction. Limbs lay nowhere near who they came from. Gore and entrails and heads littered the ground. He'd never find him in this mess-_

_Wait! Was that . . . France saw yellow - unnatural yellow! He focused on the man, squinting as hard as he could while inching his horse closer. Right smack dab in the middle of the English forces' front lines, a blond man slashed someone's stomach. Kicked someone away. Parrying and sweating and panting. He had a moment's reprieve and swiveled all around him, shouting and pointing his sword in different directions. Issuing orders. Someone rushed him and he finished them quickly, parrying and driving his sword through their shoulder._

_He looked up into the sky, and almost immediately France's rage surged. He found him. He found those green eyes wide with adrenaline and fury, face caked with dirt. England clashed swords with someone, and they shoved his face away, knocking him away._

_"I found him! There he is! He's on the front lines!" France yelled. Before he even finished his sentence he kicked his horse forward. Already riding down the hill, fleur-de-lis banner tails billowing elegantly behind him._

_"FRANCE! GET BACK HERE-" Louis yelled. Too late. That bastard was gonna get it - ooooh, France had him now! Holding his sword still at his hip, he first skirted around the French battalions. He crossed the battlefield parallel to the clashing lines until he was directly in front of England, slowing his horse down to keep its footing secure. Once he wheeled around and faced him, he kicked it back to full gallop, vaulting bodies and dodging weapons left and right._

_30 feet. Britain pulled his sword from the man's body, unaware of France's blind charge._

_25 feet. France drew his sword. The sound of scraping metal drew England's attention._

_20 feet. He looked up, meeting eyes with France. They widened in fear, and he stood frozen for a moment._

_15 feet. France threw his banner to the ground and gripped his sword with two hands. It seemed to galvanize England into action and he looked around, picking among the dead bodies._

_10 feet. France guided his horse a small bit to England's right so he could swipe his sword straight across._

_5 feet. England rose up with some kind of weapon he pulled from a body. A wooden pike. He knelt to the ground and pointed it up. "Merde-!" France gasped and tried to stop his horse but it was too late._

_Impact._

_The pike impaled his horse in the chest. Its front legs collapsed, and France catapulted from the animal. He remembered being airborne. He remembered feeling weightless. He remembered curling up, knowing he was going to land on his neck._

_Impact._

_" . . . Idiot." King Louis scoffed, shaking his head._

France woke up a few days later after dying from a broken neck.

Louis IX, King from the 25th of April, 1214 until the 25th of August, 1270, was canonized as a saint after his death for his work during the Seventh and Eighth Crusades. He used to have a monument in the basilica, but it was melted down for weapons during France's Wars of Religion. He had to skip him.

1270 to 1285 would be Philip III, then. France had to look for his burial place, and found him back in South Transept. He was in a big cluster with his wife, Isabeau, by herself on a black marble slab - the first to have black marble! Philip III rested behind her on black marble with Philip IV, his son. France wasn't going to stop, but decided Philip IV deserved his respects.

Philip the Fair, Philip the Iron King. His rule spanned the turn of the 14th century, reigning as King of France from the 5th of October, 1285 until his death on the 29th of November, 1314. Like Louis VI, he worked heavily with infrastructure and unification. Rather than let the barons and fifes around the land act as his governors, he relied on personally appointed officials. The state and its affairs became centralized, constructive, and effective, and he often had a personal hand in the affairs of the people. He restricted and dwindled feudal powers until they were little more than titular leaders.

Interspersed with the physical repercussions of sporadic war with England, France received a new energy. A jolt of motivation, and empowerment and emotional and mental stability that rivaled everything he received with the people now.

Philip was devious, though. An easy and convincing liar, a literal force of nature all in himself who manipulated everyone around him - even the pope! Even Pope Clement V was wrapped around Philip's fingers, and he used it to his advantage, becoming involved in the whole affair with the Templar Order. He was deep in debt with the Knights Templar. To eradicate all records of the debt he made it a personal goal to eradicate the Knights. Ultimately succeeded in 1314, the year of his death.

He was everything Louis XVI wasn't. Headstrong, stubborn, standing firm in his convictions no matter who or what stood against him, be it a pope or an army.

_"Flanders, Philip's not going to budge on this," France pressed._

_"Neither am I!" he yelled, crossing his arms defiantly._

_" . . . " France couldn't think of anything to say. He sighed instead. "We've been fighting for two hours over a treaty that's non-negotiable! You either need to accept this compromise, or we'll continue our hostilities."_

_"How very official of you. Did 'Philip the Fair' tell you to say that?" he said, mocking Philip's title._

_"They also call him the Iron King," France reminded Flanders._

_"What were these battles even about? Our money? Our land? It looks like both from this treaty," he said, picking it up off the table. He held it at arms length in front of him, turning his face this way and that to inspect the document from all ocular angles. "You want Lille AND Douai? You're mad! And I'm not sure how many zeroes are in that money figure but I don't like them." He transferred both hands to the top and held it up to rip it down the middle._

_"No!" France yelled, dashing forward. He snatched it from Flanders and held it away protectively. "These battles were about you and your people murdering every single Frenchman they could find in Bruges-"_

_"Because they harassed the townspeople-"_

_"Because ever since 1297, you are under Philip's jurisdiction!"_

_"Yes, yes, the Franco-Flemish war, I got it! Not like I fought it or anything," he grumbled sarcastically._

_"You lost it! You are a part of the French Kingdom now, and this treaty is recompense for the Battles of Courtrai and Mons-en-Pévèle!"_

_"I only fought those because YOUR man took Guy of Dampierre hostage in 1300!"_

_"And now you're going to pay the penalty for fighting your sovereign, King Philip!"_

_"Don't give me that! You're only mad because I kicked your ass at Kortrijk. Your Courtrai, I guess - thank you for bringing that up! How did that one taste, eh? I remember the exact date: the 11th of July, 1302! 2,500 men at arms and 4,000 infantry, defeated by 3,000 Flemish militia?"_

_France's anger surged, but he quieted down his snarl. "And then we beat you at Mons-en-Pévèle last year-"_

_"Excuse you, that battle ended indecisively!"_

_"JUST ACCEPT THE TREATY!"_

_The door crashed open and Philip entered the Great Hall, head up, crown perfectly straight, long, elegant strides and fleur-de-lis robes billowing elegantly behind him. Flanders' Count Guy trailed behind him, barely keeping up. France bowed low to his King, but Philip didn't even acknowledge him before he pulled a pen from the ink well. He offered the pen to the Count first. "Sign."_

_He stared at it a second too long, and for a moment France's heart squirmed in fear at the thought of defiance. Luckily for everyone, he sighed tiredly and took the pen, inching over to the treaty. He penned his name so small it was almost non-existent. As though he wanted to make it disappear into the paper. "Sign the treaty, Flanders," he said to his Nation, holding the pen out to him._

_"Your Lordship, no!-" he protested, backing away. Philip grabbed his wrist and drug him over to the table, planting the pen in his fist._

_"Sign," he growled, throwing Flanders down over the table. Flanders sent one last wide-eyed, pleading glance to his ruler, but he shook his head._

_"Sign it." He did as he was told, grumbling the whole time._

_"France?" Philip said, gesturing to the paper. He took the pen and signed both his human name from back then, Louis de la Couronne ('Louis' after Louis VI, and 'of the Crown' as his land designation), and his National name, then handed the pen to Philip._

_He garnished his signature with a flourish and his wax seal, picking up the document. "Thank you, gentlemen. France," he said, already marching from the room._

Philip IV. God help the men who ever disagreed with him. "I may invoke you later, to help Louis XVI. Requiescat in pace," France told him. He smiled down at Philip's face, as fair in stone as it was in person. He had a charming and round face, short forehead, large stern eyes with a sharp nose and thin lips, thick and wavy hair like France's blond. His crown's band was extremely thin, covered in jewels. The disproportionately large leaves on top were the focal point, adding originality and drawing the eye down towards his face. His scepter mounted the fleur-de-lis at the top, clutched in his right hand, and his left hand curled into a fist around his cape clasp. His effigy was the first to include detail on his clothes; the pattern on the trim of his tunic matched his crown band's jewel shapes.

The black marble gave him another layer of pomp and elegance, in accordance with how he carried himself. France remembered him often making jokes about the two of them. "We could bring all of Europe to its knees simply by looking at it, France!" he used to say.

His son Louis X succeeded him, and over the course of his rule he earned the epithet 'the Quarreler' because of all the battles he waged with his own noblemen. From the 29th of November, 1314 until the 5th of June, 1316 he was King of France, though his was a reign France would rather forget. Everything Philip IV did to build France up from the inside out crumbled under Louis X. All the energy Philip imbued France with was all gone in the course of two years - not long at all for a Nation. He died male-heirless as well, and the struggle that he left in his wake because of it halted all political action for two months after his death. France skipped his effigy and skipped the effigy of his son and daughter as well. Neither of them saw regency. Jeanne couldn't rule alone because she was a woman, and Jean I died in infancy.

In her place, Louis' brother Philip V assumed the throne. 20th of November, 1316 to the 3rd of January, 1322. But where was his statue? When looking into the basilica from the door, France spent all of his time on the floor of the nave. He didn't have to go deep into the transepts or anything - in fact, there weren't any effigies deep in the west wing that he could visit in chronology. The only person in the east wing was Francis I.

He left the west nave and the effigy of Louis X and took a short trip up the small flight of stairs to the choir and ambulatory, and as he glanced around halfway up he found who he was looking for. Philip V, Charles IV his son, and Charles' wife Jeanne d'Evreux had been hidden behind Henry II and Catherine de' Medici's massive tomb, in a little alcove under the stairs. France ran back down the stairs as quietly as possible, skirting the bannister and the side of the altar. He passed under the arch way cut out of the stairs and stopped by the three of them.

Called the Tall with good reason, his statue towered over the other two, just like he used to tower over the (roughly) ten year old France. Together, France and Philip's first orders of business involved dismantling Louis X's systems. France drafted a revival of an edict Philip IV first instituted to diminish all feudal powers across the land that weren't the crown. As it had before, the edicts strengthened the power of the monarchy and destroyed the power of the nobles. He actually went out and physically took the titles - he made their lands and titles be forfeit to the crown for any reason he could find and it worked for set up the audit system and reclaimed much of the crown's wealth.

He worked mostly on the state as a whole, initiating one single currency of France along with the weights and measures, and he repaired France's relationship with Flanders after it deteriorated under Philip IV. Oh! And the Court of Finances! The audit system, how could France forget?!

_France knocked. Knocked again. Knocked again and again and again._

_"They're not home, my Lord," one of the knights behind him said. "Let's move on to the next. We have a quota."_

_"Nooo, he's home," France said, and he knew it. He wrung the scroll in his hands patiently for a few seconds, then knocked again. "Excuse me!" France yelled. "I'll have you know that ignoring an agent of the crown is punishable by death-"_

_The door flew open. "An agent of the crown?! What are you, ten?"_

_"Yes."_

_"What do you want, boy?" the nobleman spat._

_"Hi!" France said pleasantly. "First I'd like to show you this," he said, unfolding the top scroll. "My patents of nobility. As a warning to address me from here on out with the respect my title deserves! Next, I'd like to show you this!" He swapped the papers, showing him King Philip's decree. "His Royal Majesty Philip V declares that all noblemen owning titles, lands, and wealths not endorsed by His Majesty must forfeit their riches to the crown - their rightful owner." France quickly hissed in a breath through his teeth. "Ooooh, and alsooo?" France said, feigning hesitance. "You haven't paid your dues in seven years." He rolled the edict back up and gestured to his two guards, pointing inside the house. "Do your work, Sirs."_

_They carried as many things out at a time as they could, and France helped when he could. Tossing them carelessly into the cart, France climbed atop the mass and they rode away for the next nobleman's home._

Good times! How France missed his candid speech.

Despite the stress of Philip dying childless, France really did have a smooth, easy run with him. Gently touching his hands, he marveled at the detail of his robes in the stone. The layers ruffled and bunched so naturally France would've sworn that if he touched it he'd have felt cloth. The same crown as Philip IV wrapped around his head, beautiful wavy hair spilled down the sides and framed his face perfectly. France could see the Philip IV in him. His left hand gently touched his chest, fingers half-extended as though reaching softly for something. Right hand extended completely at his side. Like he didn't know what to do with it.

Charles IV and Jeanne were in exactly the same position, and their robes were just as detailed. Charles IV. Also called the Fair. 3rd of January, 1322 to the 1st of February, 1328.

France didn't like him.

_"What say you to the selling of feudal titles?"_

_"Sorry?" France asked. He hadn't really been listening._

_"I'm thinking of selling feudal titles to improve the crown's income. Along with raising the taxes."_

_Alarm bells clanged in France's brain. NO! NO! NO! they sirened, over and over. He shook his head. "Obviously I'd be against it, Sire. Philip IV and Philip V worked diligently to clean up the state and centralize the government away from the feudal lords. Why do you want to return power to them when they'll just abuse it and take it away from you? On top of the fact that-"_

_"We need the money, France. You know that those with money are those with power anyway. Those who buy the titles won't have anything more than they used to."_

_" . . . That makes NO sense! You DO realize that this only became a problem because you debased the coinage, right? Our money's not worth as much anymore."_

_"And I'm trying to make it right."_

_"Please don't. It's not going to help. You don't need to raise the taxes AND sell offices and titles. That's ridiculous."_

Again, how he missed his candid speech.

Aaaaaah, reenter England during Charles IV's rule! Charles built fortifications on the border of Agenais, extremely close to English-owned parts of French mainland. Almost immediately, English forces went in and destroyed the fortifications. Charles sent France and a full army to English-owned Montpezat and successfully seized the town, but unfortunately, the hostilities spiraled into a war. The War of Saint-Sardos. Which France won. Ahem. Won completely. Take that, England.

After Charles IV, the last of the direct Capétians, France decided to call it a day. He had enough of this sentimental crap. Things were different now, they were different as each man brought their own personality and policies to their rule. He thanked every single monk in the Basilica on his way out, riding back to Paris by night fall. Maybe he would go back some day. Maybe he wouldn't. He sort of felt like he was shafting the House of Valois, though, so depending on how badly it ate at him, he'd be back.

 

 

 _**May 4, 1788** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments** _  
_**Library of Louis XVI** _

France ordered a new padlock for his chest the very next day. He made sure Louis XVI knew it, too, out of the childish spite he thought he buried. Louis could have done it for him easily, especially with his extensive background and expertise in locks, but France didn't want anything from that man anymore.

While cleaning the chest he took everything out individually, searching through it and relishing in all the old memories they brought up. Because as done as he thought he was with sentimentality, he realized the next day he enjoyed his history review, even the bad parts of his history. Besides, he hadn't even covered the really fun parts: the Plague, the Hundred Years' War, all the time he spent with Jeanne d'Arc, the Seven Years' War . . . So many fond memories he missed. He decided he'd go back to the basilica as soon as possible and finish out all his old rulers in the House of Valois. The Bourbons weren't buried in the basilica. He didn't have to worry about Louis' direct lineage.

France fought directly with Jeanne during her campaigns, but was called away at different times to help Charles VII on the domestic front. She wrote to him during those times, and when France found the letters he gathered all of them up, around twenty in total, and carried them to Louis' library to read them in peace.

He didn't make it through the first before Louis showed up.

_'5 May, 1429_

_France, mon amour,_

_The taking of the Fortress of Saint-Loup was marked with a Bitter Struggle. Once again, Dunois and his Men planned an Attack without me. I arrived late, and it took Hours, but by God's Will we were Victorious. I can now use the Fortress as a Base of Operations for Any Outgoing Campaigns, though I pray no more Bloodshed befalls the Loire's Banks. Before we proceed, I am going to send each English Garrison around Orléans a Message: to Abandon their Fortresses in Peace. But the English are Proud. I fear it is Hopeless._

_These Captains do not trust me without You. They shake my Confidence in myself. Sometimes even I cannot explain the Feelings I have and the Sensations I feel, and when I face their Jeers while Stumbling over my Words, it is difficult to maintain Belief in myself. Though I will not Admit it, I am often Beset by Doubt. I often question myself, my Capacity for this task God has chosen me for, and my Faith. It is often a Battle within myself: is my Faith strong enough to push back my Fear? Is my men's Faith in me strong enough for them to Follow me? My heart often Struggles to find Words riveting enough to Rally them. For they listen to me, but only because they have to, not because they Believe in me or Believe in my Mission from God._

_I miss you. I know it has only been Days, but I miss you. I miss you deeply-'_

 

 

"FRANCE!"

"Hm?" France asked, looking up. When he saw Louis he immediately regretted saying anything. He broke his streak of not talking to him. Damn it!

"I said, where were you yesterday? And get your feet off my table."

"Don't talk to me," France said, though he did as he was told.

"Excuse me. You're in my library."

"This is the only library in the palace!"

"Not true. Marie has one on her side of the castle."

"This one is bigger. And closer to my room. Go away. I'm reading."

Louis fell silent. For a moment. "I had thought . . . " he began, trailing off. The bite was gone from his voice. France looked over and saw him playing with the lace on his sleeve. Eyes down, as per usual. " . . . I had thought . . . um . . . "

"If this is about you thinking I was leaving, you can stuff it!" France snarled.

"No! No, no, no!" Louis insisted, "I just thought maybe youwantetatome," he mumbled.

"What?!"

"I just thought you were in here because maybe you wanted to talk to me."

France inspected his face, searching for sincerity to his statement. In his eyes, in his posture, everywhere. It was there, yes, but France was determined to not let it get to him. He hardened his heart and shut down every thought of Louis he could.

Most of the time, when France felt bad about something, it wasn't because of himself. Usually he started thinking about what he said and how it effected who he said it to. Were they confused? How hurt were they by what he said? Would they cry? It always ruined France's meanness, because he always felt the urge to apologize after hurting them.

He swore he wouldn't do that to himself this time. He was going to say what he wanted to say this time.

He looked Louis straight in the eyes and shook his head. "Nope! No, I didn't want to talk to you. At all. In fact, I was hoping to avoid looking at you ever again for as long as I am in the Palace."

Louis physically flinched, pain evident in his eyes when he dropped them to the floor. "I see." France expected him to leave after that. If someone were that rude to France he would've left, whether he had a retort or not. But Louis held his ground.

"Did you want something, then?" France asked. A clear usher out the door.

"I suppose, since you were out, you missed the summons to my offices yesterday?"

"Obviously."

"The Parliaments drafted a document called the Declaration of the Fundamental Laws of France. It's another appeal to the Estates-General being the only body able to levy taxes. And they criticize my _lettres-de-cachet_. I was hoping you could review it with me and help me come up with an appropriate response-"

"No. Deal with it yourself."

"Myself? B-bu-wh- I can't, don't you see?!"

"You have Brienne-"

"I need you, France! You know what to do! You can combat them with your natural strengths. Strengths and knowledges inherent in you that I do not have!"

"And you will not listen to!" France countered. He stood from the comfortable chair, wincing at the knowledge that he'd have to leave to accommodate Louis, not the other way around. "No, Louis. Look at my face: I'm done. Look into my eyes: I'm done. Read my lips: I'm done."

He gathered up his letters.

"What are those-"

" _Mon Dieu - none of your business!_ " he hissed. "Good bye, Louis-August de Capét, good luck. Whatever you decide to do, good luck. Don't tell me about it. Don't tell me if it works, fails, whatever. From now on, you're on your own. Completely. Tell Brienne the same."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Leave a comment if you have time!
> 
> I had to do SOOO MUCH RESEARCH for this chapter, and it was probably one of the best decisions I've ever made! I've always wanted to write a chapter with the Nations recalling old Kings and old memories and I figured now is a perfect time to do it, when France feels completely isolated on the regal front. I encourage every single one of you to Google the Saint-Denis Basilica effigies. You'll probably get a lot of results for the more larger tombs, but make sure you look up Dagobert's, and Louis XVI's at the LEAST! Plus, the inside's BEAUTIFUL to look at! My dream is to go to France, and if I get there someday the Basilica is my number one tourist destination because of all the history there. I cannot even explain how passionate I am about it.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who bookmarked/kudos-ed and commented!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: NSFW (Not Safe For Work) WARNING FOR THE FIFTH SECTION OF THIS CHAPTER. June 16, 1788! Sexually explicit content.

_**May 8, 1788** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments** _  
_**Louis XVI's Library** _

"France?"

The stack of old letters in France's hands claimed his attention, but he could tell it was Louis talking to him without even having to look up. France stopped on a dime, threw it in reverse, and backpedaled out of the room.

"France! Hey!" He heard the armchair creak as Louis stood up. "Stop!" No, no, no. Not today, Louis. Not when he was feeling especially . . . ick. Yes, that was a good word: ick. All day, he felt ick. Different than his usual ick. This ick had an edge to it, a potent sting. Something was off about the day. Something Nationally abnormal. And something was about to go down. Hard.

He thought he prepared. But there was no way he could have prepared for it. He just didn't realize it would come on as quickly, and as _painfully_ , as it did.

France turned and quickened his pace, trying to run away from Louis without actually "running." Unfortunately, Louis had a head start. He appeared around the corner before France could disappear behind another. There was no escaping him now, France decided, turning around. Louis leaned against the door frame, looking over his shoulder one last time as though checking for an escape route. For a few seconds he stood there, either thinking of what to say or waiting for France to initiate.

"Can I help you?" he obliged.

"I . . . How are you?" France's stomach churned in response. Harder than it had done all day. He started to feel like he had a ball in there, growing bigger and bigger with each second.

"How are _you_?"

"I'm well."

"Brienne?"

"Also well."

France nodded once, and the gesture seemed to hang in the dead air.

"What are those there?" Louis asked, pointing to the papers in his hand.

"Just some old letters, from an old friend." France's stomach rolled again, his heart skipped a beat and started racing, but he carefully controlled every reaction to his discomfort with the exception of his mouth. His lips pursed tightly. His chest and heart felt tight, like any moment they were going to erupt in pain.

"I see."

" . . . "

" . . . "

" . . . I didn't mean to intrude," France started, edging towards the door.

"Oh, no! Not at all, you're not intruding."

"I should go-" he pressed. The dull aching gradually intensified, stronger and stronger. Coming on hard, and fast.

"Please wait."

"Yes, Louis?" he squeaked out. Even to him his voice sounded clipped and tight. Heat rushed to his neck and face, burning through him. He started to sweat feverishly. Ow. Ow! Ow! Sharp, wave-like, radiating through him. Like he was being punched. With a knife.

"W-will you speak to me?"

"I'm- Uuuuh, I'm actually, umm- No, I-" France shifted to the side to lean against a table. He couldn't move, couldn't think. He winced, face contorting in pain.

"Are you alright?"

"F-fine."

"You don't look it. You're all red. Are you feverish-?" he asked. He reached out and touched the back of his hand to France's forehead before France could back away. "You are!"

France shook his head. "I'm fine- _mm_!" he whimpered, curling in on himself. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and released it slowly. "I'm fine." Suddenly he doubled over, letting out a cry.

"France! What is it?!"

"I- I don't- Agh!" Another pang slammed into his stomach and his knees buckled. He collapsed, dropping all of Jeanne's letters in his hands.

"Brienne!" Louis screamed, kneeling next to him. "Brienne, get in here, NOW!" France tugged his knees to his chest, squirming for any position on the floor - any - that would relieve him. Within seconds Brienne's footsteps rocketed into the room.

"What's wrong?" The instant France's eyes locked into Brienne's, he knew. Another punch stabbed into him, but not in his stomach. In his cut. He shrieked, his back arched, his shoes scraped uselessly off the floor.

"Nrgh- Riot! Riotriotriot-" he sputtered. "Grenoble!"

"Grenoble?" Louis repeated, shooting a wide-eyed look at Brienne. "We hit Grenoble first, didn't we-"

" _What did you do_?" France screamed. " _What did you DO_?" The last word cracked. Tears sprang into France's eyes and spilled instantly, streaking down his cheeks in rivers.

"Well, we did some work with the Parliaments, but-"

"BUT WHAT DID YOU DO?! Oh, God," he moaned. "People are being SHOT!"

"We disbanded them! We thought it was the right thing to do!" Brienne shouted. "I'll get the doctor-

"No!" France yelled. "Won't-" His back arched against another spasm. "Won't help!"

"What can I do?"

France couldn't answer.

"I'm so sorry, France! It's going to be alright!" Brienne assured.

Someone took a hot poker and raked it down his back. He opened his mouth to scream but his whole body was already so tense, it froze in his throat.

 

 

 _**May 10, 1788** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments** _  
_**France's Bedchamber** _

France's eyes opened.

He immediately caught sight of the intruder. Easily seven feet tall. Silhouetted shoulders as wide as his door. His room was dark but the thing was darker, sucking all the available light back into itself. Peering between the cracked door and the doorframe.

A black mass in his doorway. A person. Staring right at him. He couldn't make out any features, except for one eye. One lidless, cloudy eye. His heart started to throb out of his chest. Each pump pulsed his whole body with its force. Caught between adrenaline, sending his body into a frenzy, and dread, freezing him in place. As if it knew, it cocked its head to the side. The darkness on its face cracked, and a crooked smile broke through. An icy blast struck France's face and blew the door open wide enough for it to slip through. It stepped across the threshold, smiling, cocking its head back and forth.

France wanted to scramble away, to do anything but sit there and wait for its next move. He felt dizzy, his breath came in short gasps. The entire right side of his body started to burn. Urging him and screaming at him to get away, to crawl away. But he couldn't. The pins-and-needles sensation tickled his fingertips. It froze his fingers in their half-extended state. Crept into his wrists, and he felt its breeze between every tiny bone. Making goosebumps on his nerves. Tingled into his forearms and elbows. As is touched his injured shoulder, it was as if someone jabbed it with a prod. Bursting into flames, it shot down his spine and into his legs. Melted like a poison between his muscles and sinew and gummed there, holding him still. His toes curled in on themselves. His knees locked into place.

He couldn't take his wide eyes from the creature. Cocking its head back and forth, back and forth. Out of the corner of France's eyes Versailles seemed to bleed. The white wood cracked and peeled, the gold on everything dripped and ran like water around him. The walls themselves bent, leaning away. The shadow took one step. Just one. Cocking its head back and forth, enjoying watching him squirm. " _No, no, no, please don't hurt me, please don't hurt me_ -" ran through his mind, over and over. Cocking its head back and forth.

It took another step. Only a few more from his bed. He needed to scream. It was going to kill him. He needed to scream now. The butlers would hear him. Someone would hear him. France shut his eyes, and immediately regret it, as he lost sight of the horrible creature he didn't want to see anyway. But he needed to scream. He needed someone. He sucked in a breath, shoving it from his throat with as much force as he could muster. The air hissed through his vocal chords. " _Hhhhhhhhhhhh! Hhhhhhhhhhhh_!" No sound. No one coming. He didn't want to open his eyes again. He just kept screaming, screaming.

Until his eyes opened again.

A force pressed him an inch down into his bed and pillow, actually making it squeak in protest. Sitting on his back. The air started hissing through his neck again as hard as it could, but the heaviness shifted. It shoved into the small of his back, and into the back of his neck, choking his scream, grinding his cheek uncomfortably into his pillow. It leaned down and looked France in the eye with its toothy smile and milky eye. It glared triumphantly down at him, poked him in the back of the neck.

Just like the civilians did, when they barged into France's home.

He blinked and suddenly he was on his back. The thing was still there, squatting on his stomach. With its knees curled up to its chest, but as it cocked its head towards him, Louis' face met him. Lidless and grinning. He pulled out a knife, and lifted it over France's face. He opened his mouth to scream.

But then he slit his own throat. Louis' head snapped back, his blood immediately sprayed all over France. In his open mouth. He gagged as more poured up his nose, all over his face, in his hair, in his eyes-

France jerked awake.

Nothing on top of him. He was back on his stomach, head turned towards his door. Bright morning light in his room. Light, breathable air. He knew immediately that it was no more than a dream, but the small doubt nibbling at his heart forced him to be sure. He quickly looked around his room, his bed, his everything, to ensure it looked normal. No gold bleeding into the floor. No shattering, rotting wood. No melting walls. He scrambled up to his hands and knees on his bed and as he scanned to his windows Louis was there on the settee, staring with that same wide-eyed stare. France startled, throwing a hand over his heart. "Jesus!"

Louis startled as well. He reached out and put a hand on France's sweat-soaked shirt, but France shook him off. He felt too odd and violated to be touched. "France. Are you alright?"

"Scared me," he grumbled. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed furiously, smearing away all residual traces of sleep from his eyes. Rubbed his face and raked back his sweaty hair, collapsing face-first onto his pillows. "Mmmmmmm," he moaned.

"What happened?"

" . . . Bad dream," he decided. That basically encompassed all of it. He didn't want to talk to Louis. He rolled back to a sitting position and shuffled towards the edge of his bed, but Louis stood quickly. He grabbed both France's shoulders and pushed him back towards the bed.

"Wait!"

"Get off me! Why are you so touchy-touchy this morning?"

"You need to lie down. You're still feverish."

"It's just a cold sweat this time. I'm fine."

"After looking at all the blood on your back, I beg to differ. France, please. The doctor's on his way to ensure-"

"He's here," came from the doorway. "Majesty," he said, bowing low to Louis. France didn't turn to look as he waltzed right in. "Bon matin, Monsieur. How did you sleep?"

"Don't ask."

"How's your back?"

"Same as usual," he growled. He got up and walked to his armoire to get dressed.

"You're not going to show me?"

"You're not going to let me put pants on first?" France muttered. Good thing his shirt was long enough to cover himself. Poor Louis was probably mortified.

Louis scoffed. "You're cranky today!"

"I'm still recovering-"

"We're only trying to help-"

"Get out of my room!" France said.

Louis crossed his arms and looked away, planting himself back on the settee. "I'll not leave until the doctor takes a look at you."

"Fine!" He reached behind his head and clawed at his shirt collar until he found the hem, ripping it over his head. He threw it to the floor and spun around, standing completely naked in front of both of them.

"There's something wrong with you- FRANCE!" Louis yelled as soon as he looked, throwing his hand up to the side of his face. He turned away. "For the love of God, man!"

He threw his arms up, and slapped them back to his sides in reply. "Well? Take a look at the cut!"

"Put some pants on!"

"Mmmm, no. This is my room. Deal with it, or get out." He felt blood drip, rolling down his back. He ignored it.

"Not until I know you're alright."

"I hope you understand a fraction of the irony in that declaration. Even if I'm not, what are you going to do about it? Go in the drawing room at least if you're that uncomfortable."

"France," Louis said evenly. "Put. Some. Pants. On."

He would have to put pants on eventually. But rub salt on Louis' wounds, paper cuts though they were? Of course. " . . . Please," France prodded him.

"Put some pants on, please."

"I guess." France swore he heard Louis mutter something involving the word 'child'. They sat in silence while France selected his breeches and socks, and he took the time to make a quality color selection. As he hopped around on one foot pulling his socks on, he struck up a conversation with probably the only man that would talk to him anyway. "What's your name, Monsieur?"

"Me?"

"No, not _you_ , Louis! Him!"

"Cesare Buonnaroti."

"Buo- Buonno-?" he asked, stumbling over the pronunciation. "Italian born?"

"Both my parents were. But I'm French through and through, sir."

"Hm," he mumbled. Then he decided that probably sounded rude towards his heritage and he quickly remedied, "I don't doubt it, Monsieur."

"It is . . . an honor . . . to meet the personal representation of our great nation," he said, carefully choosing his words. France paused in getting dressed.

"You told him, Louis?"

"Yes." Louis still had his eyes shielded with his hand. "He shared his concerns over your wound with me, that it wasn't getting any better. I spoke of you as 'France', and while we conversed he guessed it for himself. When he asked, I confirmed."

France stepped into his breeches and pulled them up, making sure they were properly positioned around his knees before tying the drawstring. "Okay. I'm clothed."

"Are you lying to me?" Louis asked.

"No!" France yelled incredulously. Geez. If he would have talked to Louis XIV like this, he would have been backhanded by now.

Louis sighed and dropped his hand. Red as a tomato, France had to frown the smile off his face.

"His Majesty told me you've slept restlessly."

" _How does he know? This is the first time he's shown concern_ ," he thought to himself. He shrugged. "I've been trying to sleep on my back."

"Has it been working?"

He chuckled dryly. "No. I thought thicker bandages and daily cleaning of my wound would do it. Unfortunately, bandages tend to lack the dexterity of the human body. They refused to fold and bend with me when I tried a night on my side. I got no more sleep than I would have on my stomach." He sighed, "I guess I should just resign myself to the fact that I'm not going to sleep comfortably anymore."

It also didn't help that he simply wasn't a stomach sleeper. At all. If he had a choice he preferred to be on his right side or his back. Plus, with his neck craned the way it was . . . He suspected he sometimes woke up because his neck was in pain, but what could he do? He couldn't shove his face into the pillow. He had to breathe.

"You also haven't been sleeping with it covered very often."

"Yes, well . . . " he began. He didn't really have any defense. Monsieur Buonnaroti was right. France had been ripping the bandages off to give it air for a week or so. He crossed the room and showed his back to Monsieur Buonnaroti, and Louis leaned in to get a good look before hissing a breath in through his teeth.

"Ouch. I remember when that was just a scratch," he commented. France guessed they weren't going to talk about how or why it grew to be this bad.

"As do I," Buonnaroti said.

"It feels hot. What's it look like now?" France asked. "I haven't checked it in a while."

"Open cut, severe bruising, weeping, bleeding. I'm just going to . . . " He touched France's back on either side of the cut, and France felt hm peel the two flaps of skin apart with a wet smack. "It's a deep wound. A very deep wound. What would you say to some stitching?"

"Stitches wouldn't help me. This cut represents a National problem. They would keep the skin closed, but they wouldn't exactly heal me. No," he said, shaking his head.

"You should have him stitch you up. It may relieve some of your pain," Louis said.

" _As if you get a say_ ," France snorted to himself.

"That is true," Monsieur Buonnaroti agreed. "I'd wrap it just as thickly, and maybe-"

"No." He huffed, shaking his head.

"Are you sure? I'm not sure if someone like you can even . . . get infections, but that's another risk."

"I'm sure."

"I'd advise against it."

"I know. Just bandage it again."

"It looks too bad for simple bandages," Louis offered. "Get the stitches."

"No!" France snarled. "Just bandage me up," he said.

"O-oui, Monsieur."

Another bout of silence clouded thick in the air like humidity, but none felt it appropriate to break it. France stood with his arms extended while the doctor smoothed a pain-killer on his cut, then wrapped it in layer after layer. Circling around him over and over with the roll of gauze, trailing around and around, over and under, nice and tight against his cut until he felt padded and puffy enough for a boxing match.

"Do you drink before you go to bed?" he asked France when he was finished.

"Oui."

"For a restful night's sleep I would suggest replacing your usual glass of wine with brandy. His Majesty told me your tolerance is strong. Drink as much as you have to." He turned to Louis. "I've also got some laudanum for him if you think he needs it, passionflower, lemon balm, lavender-"

"He's right here!" France said, waving his hand in Monsieur Bounnaroti's face. "And he doesn't think he needs them. Merci."

"All the same, at least keep some on you just in case," he said, digging in the pocket of his trousers. He pulled out a small vial with a clear looking liquid sloshing inside. France took it from him, certain he would only throw it away later. "Even though you're stronger, I'm positive it will still knock someone like you right out."

"You don't have to treat me like I'm some sub-human thing. I'm a person. _Merci_."

" _Désolé. Je vous en prie._ "

"Well, gentlemen, this has been an incredibly awkward and uncomfortable morning and I'm sort of in a really bad mood so if you'll excuse me." He gestured towards the door to drive his point home, bowing to Louis. He picked his shirt up off the ground and noticed the blood stain from the right shoulder down to the left hip.

"Actually, I was hoping you could help with something," Louis offered sheepishly.

"What?"

"Brienne and I still haven't been able to come up with an appropriate response to the Declaration. Would you be willing to help?"

"No. I wouldn't be. Thank you. Good bye."

There was a long pause before Louis sighed. "You can't keep this up. You can't keep avoiding me, or avoiding Brienne, or avoiding your own country. Based on previous descriptions of your obligations, I'm not even sure how it's possible. You said so yourself your back wouldn't heal unless the country's problems are solved. The last choice we made about Grenoble and Brittany clearly wasn't the right one, and I'm afraid to cause you more pain. Because I care about you, and because if we've caused you pain we've caused the country some kind of pain-"

There were so many things wrong with what Louis just said, France didn't even know where to begin to counter. He'd never reach this man. Ever. He couldn't make him feel his terror of losing his sanity to Revolution, or losing his head to the guillotine, or losing his body like Rome. He couldn't make him understand just how at fault he was for all of it, either. France leveled a glare so malicious at him that he visibly recoiled. His small voice trailed off, he stared nervously at France like a person backing away from a wild animal. Louis stood, and so did Monsieur Buonnaroti. He dug in his jacket and pulled out a stack of letters, tossing them casually on the bed.

"I offered to bring these to you. Brienne and I will have a public response by tonight, ready to be released tomorrow. You are welcome to stop in to my apartments at any time today, to offer your much needed assistance." Pause. "I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I said that I am sorry."

"What is that, your attempt at a pathetic apology?"

"No . . . Yes. I'll admit, the conversation leading up to it was far more cordial in my head, but I'm trying my best-"

"Do you mean it?"

"What, my apology?"

"Yes. Do you mean it?"

"You know I do."

"See, that's the problem. I don't think I do. I've been trying to help you for years. I've watched you praise my advice to my face, then turn around and take someone else's advice, or not act at all. And then when I've confronted you, I've listened to you snivel and apologize and squirm. And then nothing changes despite all your promises," France said.

"What can I do? How can I prove it to you that I am sincere?"

He wished he had something to give Louis. A motive, or a reward to work towards, and then if he completed it, at least France would know he was sincere. But he didn't have anything. Louis had officially ran his course with France's patience. " . . . You can't."

Louis' shoulders visibly slumped. He nodded, "Then I will do whatever I can do without you, I suppose. Brienne and I both." He turned away. Both men left the room, and France waited until he heard the door to his drawing room close as well before sitting on the bed and grabbing the letters.

 

 

_'How ya doing, loser?_

_Just checking up on you since me and Spain left!_

_Story time: So I was invited to pay my greatest friend in the whole wide world Austria a visit last week. He wanted to discuss the return of Silesia in Old Fritz' wake. Hah! As if! The Great Prussia doesn't just give back land he took!_

_So anyway, take the day to get to Austria's house, right? Guess what?_

_When I finally make it, he's not even there to greet me! No! You know who was there? Joseph II, his stinkin' EMPEROR! He intercepts me in the courtyard of the palace (which is nowhere near as big as my palace) and says all that nonsense, "Thank you for coming." Blah blah blah. Then he says, "Roderich is inside, playing the piano. He does not like to be interrupted."_

_That louse made his OWN EMPEROR come intercept me because he didn't want to be interrupted while he was playing the piano._

_What a pretentious loser! Give me a break! He couldn't stop playing for a few hours just to come and intercept me, the clearly Awesome Prussia, for a meeting over HIS LAND? He's got them all so wrapped around his long, creepy, piano-player fingers._

_Of course, I didn't have a problem with interrupting him, so I ignored his Emperor and kind of pushed my way through the palace until I found him. Scared him kinda bad, I think, when I threw the door open. Him and some other guy were sitting on the bench together. Both jumped a mile. Hah!_

_Anyways, that's all I have to say. Write me back, loser!_

_Gilbert Beilschmidt; Das Königreich Preußen'_

 

 

Prussia must never have received France's letter. Oh well, France sighed, those things happen. At least he was checking in on France. He could reply once he read Spain's letter.

 

 

_'France,_

_Hey, buddy! So, I finally got around to answering your letter! Sorry about that. I've been really busy lately because King Carlos got in some more fights with Pope Pius over the promotion of sciences in my country, and well, you know how stubborn the Papacy gets sometimes. I've been back and forth between my house and Rome. Plus, I have to make sure Romano isn't around when Carlos and I talk about it. Romano's really sensitive when it comes to Popes and most days I end up with a frustrated head-butt to the groin._

_You'd think Pius'd leave Carlos alone at this point - the man's 72 years old! We're just about done getting his affairs in order, you know? Boy, I'm gonna miss him when he's gone. He had such a good run! I remember going with him the first time he met his wife, Philippine when he was 22 - Well. I guess you'd know her since she was the Duke of Orléan's daughter. Haha, isn't that weird to think about? Like, Carlos and Louis XV were cousins. We're basically brothers by blood if you go back far enough._

_Ew. Anyway._

_Do you still want my advice? Too bad! Here it is. I think I'll start with the tax situation._

_Try. Try again. And keep trying. And if that doesn't work, find some loopholes. Use the same tricks the Parliaments are using. Do some digging, pull up treaties, documents, the works. Read up on anything and everything you can regarding powers and who has them, when. I think you'll be surprised to find that more often than not it isn't the King. Find where your position can insert itself into the process. Switch your tactics, and try to be a monkey wrench rather than fighting against the Parliament's._

_I'm dead serious, mano. How do you think the people without any of the "power" manage to do things? They actually take the time to read the fine print. (Because usually they're the ones who wrote it in the first place.) Now, I know you said you're finished. And I won't tell you to jump back in to Louis' life just for the sake of my advice. But I think you and I both know that if your country needs you, you'll go back and do what you have to do. I'm just saying, if you end up going back, keep trying. Look for your own hoodwinks while you're at it. It feels like you're cheating the first few times but you'll get over it. That's the best advice I got on that._

_Okay, next thing: Britain._

_I'm not judging you for reaching out. I'd rather you reach out to Britain than no one at all. So Bretaña's King Jorge is sick, huh? That stinks. Maybe I'll send him a letter or something. Just to check up on him. We fight sometimes too, but it's the right thing to do.'_

Spain made France smile. What a forgiving Nation. What a pleasant, loving, generous Nation. Spain and England's relationship was about as terrible and France and England's. They held such resentment for each other ever since the late 1400s. The Armada's defeat was humiliating, absolutely humiliating for him. The only difference was Spain and England had the maturity to treat each other like gentlemen when not on a battleship.

And yet, Spain was willing to shove all that history aside in the wake of a suffering Nation. France hoped someday he'd have the liberty to make the same generosity a priority.

_'That stinks that he couldn't go to Versailles. And it's okay to admit that you're sad. I'm sure you've been lonely, especially since Prussia and I left - it really is hard to deal with the silence after the loudest friends you have stay with you for an extended period of time! But you know what that means, right? It means we gotta meet up again! Silly old me missed your "beginning of May" deadline, but that's okay, because now it gives us time to talk to Prussia and see when he's free!_

_You know what I just thought of? The Seven Years' War, when you and I sat camped on the coast of Portugal for almost a month in April and May waiting for a British attack. That was fun. How much money do you think we lost each night playing Cacho and Alouette? Good times!_

_Anyway. I get side-tracked easily._

_Okay, what else? The horses? I'm not even mad about the horses. It was for a good cause, right? I'm at least glad you took the initiative and got yourself out there with the people. I know it was short-lived, and you didn't really learn much, and that's a bummer. But seriously, after you've been clearly depressed for so long, getting up and doing it is a good sign in my eyes. Don't think I'm letting you off the hook that easily, though!_

_Here's what I would do about the people. I hope you still want my advice! Wait for it to blow over. They won't even remember your face or your name in a month, and you can easily change one of those if you have to. Don't go to Paris anymore, and if you do, stay as far away from that side of the city as possible. Especially if most of the people you were talking to are affluent or close to affluent. If you want the real nitty-gritty, I'd go talk to the people at the very bottom of the totem pole. Beggars, whores - if you think I'm kidding, I'm not. Do you know how many drunk men spill the beans to prostitutes in brothels every night? A lot more than you think! In fact, we were two of those people in 1643 if I remember right. :)_

_Did you see that smiley face I drew? Isn't it cute?_

_Go find the underbelly of the city. They're not gonna lie, and most of the time they're the ones with the stones to do something anyway._

_I learned most of these techniques from Prussia. He bitched at us for a whole month and a half when Old Fritz made him read all the treatises, remember? I decided it was a good idea and went ahead and found all of my stuff too. Really pays off._

_Actually, that kind of makes me wonder a little bit why you never did it. Maybe it's because of how long-standing your monarchy is. I mean, back when Kings had absolute power, they had councils and stuff but nobody did a thing without his approval. My guess is over the centuries its been power after power after power that they've "taken" from the King, and it was too gradual for you to notice. Not that you asked or anything. Or that I needed to share that. What? Never mind._

_Please, please, pleeeeeease take care of yourself. If you feel sick, rest. If you feel odd, or disconcerted or something, please talk to us! Especially if it becomes bad again. Promise me you'll keep us updated. I'm gonna send a letter to Prussia, and ask him if May 20th is good for him. Check your dates, too._

_Hasta la vista, mano._

_Antonio Fernandez Carriedo; El Reino de España_

 

 

Spain was an extremely young Nation despite his physical appearance. It wasn't until the late 1100s that Hispania started to deteriorate. According to the records, one day Hispania was just . . . gone. Like Rome. In his place, a little baby boy.

It was weird. When France took leave to see the new Nation, he saw the resemblance to Hispania. And the characteristic awareness that was always in the Nations' eyes was there, but it was different. Like little Spain recognized all of them. Hispania was in there, but as Spain grew up he had no memory of anything before himself. He was the fastest growing Nation any of them had ever seen (since America, of course!). A baby in the 1200s, a grown boy by the 1300s, maybe eight or so. He stagnated in the 1400s, having to split himself between two thrones, then in the 1500s started to grow again. To their amazement he was eighteen years old by the 1550s. France remembered going through spans of time where he didn't see him, then not being able to recognize him. Still looking for a small child and seeing an adult in front of him.

Why did it feel like even young Spain knew what to do? Why did it feel like everyone but France knew what to do?

 

 

_'France,_

_The piano is beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Thank you._

_Even my teacher, Joseph Haydn, offered his approval. And he is rarely anything but critical._

_Unfortunately, the two of us were so rudely interrupted the other day by none other than the Demon Douche himself. I didn't even know Joseph II received him, but apparently when he told Prussia I was in a lesson, the man went on a rampage. He stormed all throughout my palace knocking things over, pounding on doors left and right, following the music until he found where we were. He crashed in like a wild animal, screaming about "How DARE I snub the ever-glorious Prussia." Scared Haydn to death. And scared me, quite honestly! When you're that mentally invested in something, and then someone like Prussia just barges in and ruins it, it's frightening!_

_He's such a brute. Why are you friends with him? He has no sense of class, no taste in anything refined, and no refined taste in anything! You know he broke my glasses once? Right off my face, during his seizure of Silesia! Ugh._

_I don't know why I bother. You're friends with him, of course I'm preaching to the wrong choir. Thank you again for the beautiful piano. I know you said you'd consider us even, and I accept your offer. We are officially, monetarily, and personally even._

_If you ever want a private performance from Haydn, Mozart, myself, or anyone, do not hesitate to write me. We all love the performance and the attention. Speaking of Herr Mozart, I'll have to personally call on him to return to the palace to play my brand new piano._

_Italy says hello. Holy Rome offers well-wishes as well._

_Roderich Edelstein; Kaiserthum Oesterreich'_

 

 

_'Francey-pants,_

_That's a real good question, buddy. I don't know what you're supposed to do about the unforgiveness thing. And unfortunately, I can't ask Chief Wahunsenacawh about it either. But I think if I asked him, he would have imparted more of his wisdom to me. And he would have said, "Wapi, when you throw dirt, you lose ground. You must weigh them in your heart: does the throwing mean so much to you? And does the lost ground mean so little to you?"_

_I don't know if that even answers your question. Your question was, "What do I do," right? He'd never advise anybody outright, if that's what you were expecting. He'd just give you a little piece of perspective. It was your choice to peer through his perspective or not, and once you looked it was your choice to act. Usually, though, things became clear for you after speaking to him._

_I can't tell you what to do. About anything you're going through. Just try to keep things in perspective._

_I will look up that treaty in the meantime. Sorry I can't be of more help._

_Alfred F. Jones; The United States of America'_

 

 

No letter from Canada. France's heart twinged in sadness, and he had to work to bury it beneath some other emotion - any other emotion. Even if it was negative as well. He hurt and insulted Canada. He should expect no kindness in return.

No letter from Britain, either. Well, since France was embarrassed by the whole thing anyway, he decided to return his and Britain's relationship to the status quo. Nothing out of the ordinary here. No desperate France, calling upon Britain for emotional support. Nothing to see here. Move along.

 

 

_'Britain,_

_I didn't receive a reply from you! What, was my last letter too much for you? Oh, come now, it wasn't even that insulting! Did I even put a single insult in there?_

_Or maybe, your simple mind just couldn't comprehend the fact that I am the more mature one out of the two of us, and was willing to show you a small bit of concern. However false and through-my-teeth it was._

_Your invitation is officially revoked. I have Spain and Prussia to hang out with anyway._

_I told you how sad I've been lately, but I think I've found my remedy! Whenever I feel lost, or get very upset, or feel hopeless or directionless, I just think of Hastings, 1066. I'm not sure why it cheers me up! Maybe it has something to do with the fact that because I gave the Normans a bit of help, it was one of the worst military disasters you've ever suffered and led to the Norman conquest of England, or something. I don't know-'_

Crap. France remembered that England was only a baby when that happened. He wouldn't remember it. Oh well. Any English failure was a good English failure. He couldn't scratch it out without having to write a whole separate letter anyway.

 

_'I don't know. You know he claimed you as his own immediately, don't you? William the Conquerer? I stayed and celebrated with him after his victory and he let me meet you, calling you 'His England.' Saying how he felt you were special when he looked at you. Good luck swallowing that tidbit down._

_Or maybe Stirling Bridge in 1297. William Wallace and the Scotsmen really did a number on your well-equipped, twice-as-large-and-better-trained army, didn't they?Bannockburn? 1314?_

_Spain's revenge on the English Armada with a wounded and recovering fleet? 1589?_

_But really, who's keeping track?_

_Or maybe, to bring up something recent, the American Revolution. The first shots in Lexington on April 19th, 1775._

_Enjoy scrambling around the sickly George III._

_Francis Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France'_

 

 

 _**May 30th, 1788** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments** _  
_**France's Bedchamber** _

That was the last attempt Louis made, for almost three weeks. Versailles went dead around France - well, okay, for all France's intents and purposes, Versailles went dead. In all other circumstances, it couldn't have been more alive. And he hated it. He only wished he could go dead inside Versailles as well. His body was still a live wire. He felt like he was trying to balance on a rope. Sometimes his heart pounded, his chest squeezed. His muscles twitched and twinged without his permission, and his shoulder . . .

Louis and Brienne had met on the daily until they responded to their Declaration of the Fundamental Laws of France. France never found out what the document even entailed, or what they did in response. Of course the document piqued France's interest, then and now, but he couldn't do anything to explore it anymore. That ship sailed. He used to be proud in his defiance. He used to think pushing Louis away was the good choice. It would have been, had he been among the people again. But not while he was still at Versailles. He effectively isolated himself.

No, life continued as normal, just without him standing over Louis' shoulder. Without France whining and fighting and clawing his way out of regal and parliamentary hoodwinks. Instead he watched jealously from the sidelines while his absence made smaller waves in the water than he wanted. He wanted a tidal wave. Expected a tidal wave. He got maybe the occasional ripple that blurred the water's surface. Life went on. Louis moved on, and so did Brienne. France was the only one who didn't.

He had to occupy himself, and pretend outwardly that everything was fine.

How long since he went to he opera? No matter how hard he thought about it he couldn't remember. All the years blurred together, and he couldn't even remember the last production he saw. But at any rate, when he heard that the performers from the Paris Opera House were coming to Versailles to give the King and Queen a special performance, he decided to go. He decided to try and inject another shot of normalcy in his life.

"I wish you'd allow me to stitch this, Monsieur," Monsieur Buonnaroti said.

"I know," France said.

"Why do you hesitate?"

"Knowing it's not going to help defeats a lot of the purpose, I suppose."

"But you won't accept an improvement? Stitching would stem a lot of the bleeding. And-" He paused for a moment, and France could tell he was deciding whether or not to let out whatever it was he was thinking. The desire for release must have been stronger than whatever verbal offense he would commit. "I'm running out of bandages," he muttered under his breath as he tied off the end and tucked it into the layers.

Whether the last bit was intended for France's ears or not, France didn't have anything more to say about it. He just didn't want stitches. And he knew he was making it hard on himself, ruining shirts and causing himself more pain than he had to, but he just simply didn't want them. "Monsieur," France started loudly to hopefully end an argument before it began. He walked over to his armoire and chose a clean shirt. "You need only tell Louis that you need more. Whatever the King orders will be on the steps of Versailles within the hour. You know that."

"I do," he admitted, nodding slowly. "Have you been following any of my advice?" He asked it like an honest question, but France could hear the shallow undertones of accusation and skepticism.

Honestly, if Buonnaroti didn't get so far under France's skin today he would have been honest. "I have."

"Has it been helping?"

"No," he lied, slipping his arms into the puffy sleeves of his shirt.

"With or without the laudanum?"

"Without," France told him, nodding to his bedside table. "I still have the bottle, though. Just in case." He never did throw it out like he thought he would. A combination of never quite getting around to it and a worming feeling in his heart that he may very well need it prevented him from doing so.

Monsieur Buonnaroti nodded. "Please hold on to it. That vial holds probably two nights' doses for you. Any normal person would get a week or so out of it, but . . . I also gave some to His Majesty."

"Did you?" France asked, somewhat surprised by it. "I didn't know Louis was having trouble sleeping!" Louis didn't lose a whole lot of sleep over anything, really. "Wonder if he's been taking it?"

"I doubt that," Buonnaroti said.

France immediately took his comment as a dig at Louis. "Me too!" he grinned, flashing his teeth. Monsieur Buonnaroti didn't smile at all, so France quickly killed his own mood. "Oh. What do you mean?"

"The laudanum's actually for you. Just in case you went through your supply quickly, I wanted someone who you see on a more frequent basis than me to have some ready for you."

"Oh. How nice of you," he muttered sarcastically. Ah, Monsieur Buonnaroti didn't deserve that. He was only trying to help. "Thank you," France said, meeting his eyes to show his sincerity. "If I need some, I will ask Louis." Buonnaroti's eyebrow quirked questioningly, so France added, "I promise," to the end.

France figured (hoped?) Buonnaroti would leave after that, but instead he walked over to one of the chairs in France's room and sat down on the edge. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Buonnaroti dropped his gaze to his lap. "I don't know if I quite understand, but when I think I do understand, I don't like the implications. You represent a country. The people, and the places? How do the places manifest themselves?"

"Paris is the capitol. I feel happenings in Paris right in here." He patted his chest.

"Your heart. So your capitol is your heart. And are other cities represented by body parts?"

"To lesser degrees. Paris holds more weight, if that's what you mean."

"So when the country goes through disasters, it affects you in different ways?"

"That is correct."

"Is it . . . proportionate?" He said the word extremely slowly, unsure if it was the right one to use but unable to come up with another one.

France scrunched up his face in thought. "Uh, no?" he said, tilting his hand back and forth. "Sometimes? I don't know, honestly. Geographical things usually . . . are," he said carefully. "Natural disasters, like floods and things, are proportionate most of the time. Like, one time in 1316 there was a really heavy rain over England that ruined all of his crops. A lot of his population died from starvation and disease, and so in turn Britain starved, and he got really sick. And then in the Great Fire of London in 1666, his body actually received horrible burns on his chest - over his heart. He kept coughing up smoke and black ash, too. And blood."

"So this thing on your back? What is that?"

"Actually, it's a combination. It's not just geographic things. Economic, social, and political strife will mess us up, too. This appeared the day after the Assembly of Notables busted. That was the first time people of all social classes thought, 'It's us versus them.' As in, it's the people versus the crown. And it's only gotten worse as the discontent grew to what it is today. It's like . . . literary symbolism, only instead of a vague metaphor, it's physical." He was oddly proud of that comparison. He thought it was perfect.

"And what is the worst you can endure?"

"Civil war," France said. "Revolution, Frenchman against Frenchman."

Buonnaroti nodded. "And that is what I am afraid of. This is across your entire back, like it's tearing your entire body in half. If it's symbolic, like you said, it could mean something disastrous. Do you think-"

"That revolution is imminent? Yes. Yes, I do. Don't tip-toe around it like Louis is. It's going to happen, and soon. We just have to wait and see. It could've been avoided a long time ago, I think, but Louis did not help in the slightest. Even when I was warning him in the early 1780s. Which is why I'm so cross with him all the time."

"Yes, I've noticed that you're very casual with His Majesty," he said carefully. "No one else in the palace - and probably the kingdom - would dare talk to him the way that you do."

"Half of them are just being suck-ups. The other half haven't tested the waters enough to know that Louis lacks the constitution to ever punish them yet. Besides," he said, "When you have the relationship I have with him, formality isn't an issue."

"And what type of relationship is that?" France barked out a laugh before he could help himself, and Monsieur Buonnaroti was quick to remedy, "I'm sorry, Monsieur Francis, that was very untoward. I would say I don't mean to pry, but of course I do. I spend so much time around you and His Majesty that I often overhear much of what you two discuss."

"You're fine," he insisted, but he refused to answer. He couldn't talk about it without explaining every detail, and to explain every detail would require far more time than he had that morning. That week. Still, he felt lighter. There was a specific word he was looking for . . . The fact that Monsieur Buonnaroti understood what was happening and what it meant made him feel . . . vindicated! That was the word. Vindicated. He wasn't just crazy, or blowing anything out of proportion. Somebody else understood. He sighed, exhaling some of the dark cloud that had been following him for a while.

France pulled out his outfit for the day, tossing it on the bed in hopes that Buonnaroti would take the hint and leave. But when France looked he was still slumped over, eyes glassy, staring emptily at the floor. France cleared his throat, and the noise did the trick. Buonnaroti started, standing quickly.

" _Désolé. Au revior_ ," he said, bowing low.

As Buonnaroti passed him, France offered him his hand. " _Au revoir_." They shook hands, then he gathered up his things and left.

Compared to the company of conversation, dressing in the complete quiet felt unusually isolated. France felt hyper-aware of his body and his actions, he felt like he had to physically tell his arms and fingers to move and do things, rather than just doing them. Reach out. Grab the pants. Lift them up. Undo the three buttons around the knees, one at a time. One, two, three. Step into the pants, pull them up. Redo buttons around knees: one, two, three.

His choice of outfit for the opera was a nice one: silky, soft blue jacket woven with opal colored thread. When the light hit just right, the fabric shimmered in every color - white and cream, sky blue, lavender, soft pink, bright and pale yellow, every shade of green from pine to emerald. The full-length waistcoat underneath was woven with blue and yellow swirls, and the jacket overtop was trimmed to match around the hems. The sleeves were plain blue, but they had wide cuffs that folded back and sported the full design, even on the cuff links. Definitely one of his most elegant and opulent suits. Even a strip on the bottom of his pants had the design on it.

Pale yellow cravat, but he went for a modest knot. France wrapped it around his neck twice and knotted it twice in the front, leaving the two tails out. Side ponytail today; his hair just was not cooperating. Not cooperating by France's standards, of course. His hair "misbehaving" was a relative term, considering it never lost an ounce of its glory. Maybe a little flat today, but who had to know? God forbid France ever found a split end. He stared at himself in the mirror, turning, twisting, checking himself from every angle. He looked amazing. Clean. Well-kept, confident - what an excellent façade.

Façade. What was it Louis VI told him?

_"Your Majesty?" France asked, knocking lightly on the door. "How are you feeling?" He went ahead and let himself in to the King's bedchamber despite the extreme social offense he would commit. Good thing he did. Louis VI did not look well. He had his covers up to his chin, but France could see the sheen of sweat on his red, blotchy face. He tossed and turned, moaning gently. Practically panting._

_"Francia!" he yelled. Or, tried to yell. It came out small and weak despite his attempt to fill it with the usual spark he had. He coughed so violently, his shoulders lifted off the bed. He wheezed and hacked, eventually rolling to his side to stifle it. "How are you today?"_

_France scoffed. "Me? How are you?"_

_"No, no! That's not-" He winced. "Ach, my head aches! That's not the answer we agreed on, is it?"_

_" . . . No." Louis wouldn't budge unless France obliged him. "I'm feeling beautiful, happy, and-" Louis shifted uncomfortably, worming underneath the covers. Before France could stop himself he sputtered, "healthy." He went and sat by his bedside. "There. Three positive words."_

_"Very good," he sniffled thickly. France took the cloth out of the water basin by the bed and wrung it out. He draped it across Louis' forehead, and his King sighed in relief. "That feels nice."_

_"How are you feeling?" France asked again._

_Louis suddenly threw the covers off of himself. "I'm actually very glad you're here. Help me up," he said, holding his hands out to France. "And get me my clothes."_

_"What?"_

_"I didn't stutter, and I spoke Capétian French!" he said, snatching the rag from France's hand. He dabbed at his own face before throwing it across the room. "Hurry up, my aches are coming back!"_

_"You shouldn't! You have to let the fever break!"_

_"Francia, I am fat. And you are strong. Are you really going to watch a sick fat man get up all by himself when you could help?"_

_"But Sire, you're not well!"_

_"Am I supposed to expect the whole Kingdom to stop for me? Or life? Is life supposed to stop for me? Of course not! And so I will get up, and do my duty. I owe it to my people, and to you. Besides, I have appearances to uphold - I am a King, and as a King, I should look proud and strong and noble at all times. Nobody should see me at anything other than my best, do you understand me?"_

_No. Not at all. "Y-yes?"_

_"There's a lesson here, Francia, so listen, and listen well: don't ever let anyone see your weaknesses. Even when you feel like a pauper, dress like a King. Even when you feel ugly, walk around like you're beautiful. Even when you don't feel well, get out there, and soldier on. You're probably thinking, 'But King Louis, why?' Because this Court, and this world, will eat you alive, my friend, if you don't look and act like you're confident. You're probably thinking, 'But King Louis, how do I do that?' Go on, ask!"_

_"But King Louis, how do I do that?"_

_"The keys to a convincing façade are your clothes, and your outward physical appearances. Best way to hide inner turmoils. You could be sick as a dog. Look strong. You could be boiling inside." He paused to cough again, and France waited patiently, even as he struggled to suck in a breath between each bout. "Ugh," he grumbled, rubbing his sore throat. "Even if you're really upset, look calm, look level-headed. You could feel disgusting. Look clean, and elegant. And they will never know the difference, because they'll go ahead and make the assumptions for themselves. 'Oh! Look at Francia! He always looks so nice! What a classy person!' And they will respect your pride - maybe even fear you and your confidence."_

France remembered it vividly.

It wasn't hard. France knew that he was one of those Nations, naturally endowed with overflowing beauty and charm, envied all the world over. Louis just helped him refine his style. It took some time, but over the centuries France fine-tuned his style as he built up his self-esteem. With Louis VI's guidance he took genuine interest in fabrics, colors, styles, trends. Everything about him and his appearance became carefully planned, and it really did become a cycle. He felt better about himself because he looked better, and since he felt better about himself he wanted to look better.

Now France could pride himself on the fact that the world could literally fall apart around him, and he'd still look good. He'd always be in proper cleanliness, he'd always have good taste in nearly everything. His fashion sense was impeccable, and his hair was always groomed and shining.

After that, Louis VI's lessons moved to the social arts. He learned to excel in social situations. Louis always said read people first, talk later. He taught France the nuance of body language, and people became his area of expertise. Presentation, eloquence and oratory, public speaking, communication, he flourished in all of it. He could have pointed people out in a room who were hiding something, based on subtle body language and social air. The timid, scared France was gone within a month, and the new France, the suave, poised, confident boy, took his place while Louis VI improved the state.

He held his head high. He rarely let anyone know anything was wrong. Until Louis XVI. Under Louis XVI's extreme duress, everything he learned fell violently to the wayside.

Or, at least, he never had the opportunity use it under Louis XVI, and lost a lot of his skill. Louis never exactly hid anything. He just never quite had anything there to begin with. And whether or not France spoke with the fires of passionate conviction, he'd never convince Louis of anything long enough to take action. Or Parliament. There was no way to twist his words in such a way to sound like something they'd be interested in. Because at the very core, what he wanted and what they wanted were so fundamentally simple he couldn't change it. He couldn't talk circles around them and make them believe something, then re-word it later for his benefit.

Anyway, the only thing that outwardly ruined his façade were the dark circles embedded in his skin. And the slightly pale complexion he had. Pretty good by his standards, considering there were moments in the day where he came close to blacking out. As France reached the North Wing, all he had to do was head down the Galerie de Pierre to the box levels of the Opera House. France didn't want to sit with the other rich nobles, though. He wanted to enter from the first floor so he could sit with the "less entitled rabble" as he heard Louis XV say once during a performance. France instead went down the Grand Staircase, at the juncture of the Center Wing and the North Wing. When he hit the landing of the ground floor, he was in the Chapel Vestibule, where he broke down in front of Brienne that one day. How long ago was that? A few weeks? No, months. It wasn't months already, was it? Time passed so slowly and so quickly at the same time.

Plus, it didn't help that he often lost chunks of time that he couldn't account for.

France passed the chapel to his right, and through the Gallery Hallway leading straight to the Opera House. Staring down at his shoes, he watched the checkered pattern pass by his feet - black, white, black, white, black - until he thought he heard a shuffling to his left. Thinking he almost ran into someone, he glanced up to apologize.

And came face to face with Carloman I.

"Oh my-!" he yelled, startling backwards a step. He blinked, staring at the unmoving figure in absolute confusion until he realized he was looking at a statue. There was one underneath each archway carved into the hallway. A statue in each little inlet. France stared at the same Carloman I that he skipped over in the Basilica. Son of Pippin the Younger, as well as Charlemagne's younger brother. Carloman was the King who opposed Charlemagne and nearly deposed him.

_Carlemagne wheeled his horse around towards the forces gathered in the distance._

_"Francia!" he yelled. He leaned down low in his saddle, offering his hand way low to France. "Want to come along?"_

_France's little heart swelled that Charlemagne, the most noble man he knew, wanted him along. He sprinted over to the horse, only coming up to its knees. Craning his neck straight back to look at Charlemagne, way up high and proud and big. He had to jump to reach Charlemagne's hand, and with one arm, he hoisted France up and planted him on the saddle in front of him. He kicked the horse forward._

_The next thing France remembered was bits of the conversation with Carloman._

_"Brother!" Charlemagne boomed behind him. "Brother! I ride for Aquitaine to meet you, as was in your letter! Why do you intercept me here?"_

_He ignored Charlemagne's question completely. "I see you've brought your . . . " He trailed off, sneering at France. " . . . prize." The ferocity of his gaze frightened France. He shrank back, fearing Carloman would hurt him. He nestled into Charlemagne's tummy, and the heat on his back comforted him and enveloped him. France clutched at Charlemagne's tunic, and he wrapped a big, comforting arm around France's waist._

_"It was in our father's will that Francia be entrusted to my care, Carloman. He is no prize - just as our Kingdoms are not prizes. They are duties . . . "_

_France quickly zoned out. They started saying a lot of words France didn't know._

_Suddenly, Charlemagne started shouting. "BASTARD!" he screamed, scaring France. Even his horse skittered to the side, and he struggled to control it. "I ride all the way to Aquitaine with an army to SAVE your churlish arse from the rebellion - UPON YOUR REQUEST!" He ripped the helmet from his head, slamming it to the ground. "And what do you do? You intercept me at Moncontour to tell me, 'Oh! I've got it under control! Why'd you ride all the way out? Who told you to, you're making me look like a fool-' YOU did, you idiot! YOU told me to!" Carloman dismounted and Charlemagne followed suit. France moved to slide himself from the saddle as well but Charlemagne shoved him back up. "Stay there!"_

_France remembered watching from the saddle while they shoved each other, then tackled each other, rolling on the ground._

_"This is our FATHER'S land, and you're just going to abandon it for me to handle? Crooked-nosed, yellow-bellied KNAVE!" Charlemagne yelled._

France moved on to the next statue, King Pippin. Next to her, his Queen Berthe. And next to her, Queen Hermentrude - Charles II's Hermentrude. A small blurb of a memory came to him:

_She leaned over, resting her hands on her knees. "I know you're bored, child. Want to learn how to embroider?" No, he didn't. That was for women to do. And he was big and strong. Like Charlemagne._

Clovis II next.

Carloman II. The serious King to balance out Louis III's silliness.

_"Oh no! Help me! Hellllllp me!" King Louis III shouted, throwing the back of his hand across his forehead. He raised his voice a few octaves to sound feminine. "Oh, if only there were a brave, handsome knight to come and rescue me!" France galloped over on his imaginary horse, brandishing the stick that was his makeshift sword. "Doth I see my knight in shining armor?"_

_Carloman II entered the hall where they were playing. Louis III let out a high-pitched shriek, so loud Carloman had to cover his ears. "Oh no! The dragon, the fierce, fire-breathing dragon! Slay him, Sir Francia!" France ran over, swinging his sword. Luckily, Carloman had the reflexes to back-pedal and dodge him, but one particularly careless swing caught him in the stomach._

_"Mmf!" he grunted, doubling over. "Ouch! Why do you play with him so, Louis?" he asked, voice tight from pain. "He'll never learn to manage himself if you don't allow him to grow up." He gently nudged France back, and he ran back to Louis III. "Boy, you need to learn about finances and war and politics! Not dragons and princesses from my lazy brother. When you're finished, come with me. Your lessons should begin as soon as possible. For if hard work is your weapon, success will be your slave."_

_"You certainly have a lance up your ass! He's only a boy, Carl. And if you didn't notice he's going to stay a boy for a while. Why not let him enjoy it while he can?"_

France smiled, affectionately tapping Carloman's stone foot. He couldn't see who the next statue was, so he peered around the column blocking his view. Who he saw made his smile vanish immediately.

Robert II.

_He grabbed a fistful of France's hair, twisting it so hard he pulled France to his feet. France squealed in pain, clawing at his wrist and struggling against him. Robert II paused to backhand him, then continued to drag him down the castle hall. France knew where they were going. To the chapel basement. Robert hauled France in front of him, throwing him against the doors to bodily force them open._

_"This boy is a heretic!" he roared to anyone and everyone in the chapel. Monks turned and stared, silent parishioners turned and stared, bowing to the King. He dragged France to the front and threw him down directly in front of the altar, where the priest usually stood for Mass. "Kneel," he snarled. France clamored to a kneeling position, folding his hands. His shoulders heaved with sobs that he had to choke down if he didn't want worse punishment. "He is an abomination - a sorcerer! Satan has a hold on this poor boy's soul and he has surrendered himself willingly! He has been granted a perpetual youth that is an affront to God's authority over eternal life! If he cannot renounce Satan and the evil powers he has so easily accepted, his soul will be purged and cleansed!"_

_"OurFatherwhoartinHeavenhallowedbeThynameThyKingdomcome-" France sputtered, babbling like a madman. "ThywillbedoneonearthasitisinHeavenandg-"_

_France heard a snick! A knife slid free from its case. France tensed, waiting for Robert to stab him. When the cold, sharp tip jabbed into France's neck and drew blood, he let loose a sob. "G-Giveusth . . . giveusthisdayourd- our daily bread . . . "_

_"Do you see?! He stutters in prayer! He stutters at the Lord's prayer! Fetch me the fork!"_

_"Noooo," France wailed. "No, please! Please!" Robert grabbed under his chin and snapped his head back, holding him there with the knife to his throat while someone ran and got the torture device. He did the honors, first tying France's hands behind his back then strapping the vertical fork around his neck like a collar. He threw France to the floor and left him there, his hysterical convulsions distorted by his extended throat._

The memory attacked him so forcefully, France snapped his head back, scratching at the collar that wasn't even there.

Move on, who was next? Aw, Louis VI. Why did one of France's favorites have to be next to one of the worst? Normally, he would have stayed and waited for another fond memory to appear, but the next statue caught his eye for its difference. Positioned forward from the others in its little alcove, he could see who it was before he even went over to it.

The statue was a beautiful likeness. A perfect likeness. Every detail of her face, her clothes, her armor, her hair, was exactly as he remembered. Those appearances Louis VI always told him to uphold, France was good at them. Despite his capital resting in English hands, France always managed to look poised, confident, strong.

But every time, every goddamn time he was in Jeanne's presence, France always felt deplorably insufficient in every way.

_"I'm here to see the Dauphin. I am Jeanne d'Arc, from Domrèmy." She said softly, but full of purpose._

_The impersonator next to France on the throne nodded. Her test, to see if she indeed was who she said she was. "I am the Dauphin. Charles VII."_

_Jeanne looked at him, looked him up and down. She withdrew a step in hesitation before her eyes squinted and she shook her head. "May I please see the Dauphin?" Her eyes flicked to France, and he could tell something came over her. The skeptic squint vanished, her green eyes widened and she drew herself to full height. Her mouth even dropped open before she caught herself. "The Dauphin, please!" she cried, loudly, confidently. Her eyes burst with a chill that pierced straight to his bones, rattling his frame. Clear, direct eyes. She rivaled the snow-storm of France's blue. "I come bearing a message from God! Borne to me by the Archangel Michael, Saint Margaret of Antioch, and Saint Catherine of Alexandria!"_

_"Girl, I am the Dauphin!"_

_"I will find him myself!" Jeanne turned her back from France and from the imposter and waded calmly through the crowd like a boat in the water. Her keen eyes scanned until she looked up suddenly, and practically pushed through people. She fell to her knees before the real Dauphin, dressed in plain clothes like a commoner. "Charles VII, Dauphin of France, God has commanded me to crown you King, and bring victory to France."_

France knew instantly that she was indeed who she said she was. If France was honest, he mistook her for a boy when she first walked in to the hall. She had her hair cropped short and she wore trousers. It took an up-close glance at her to realize her facial features were those of a girl's: slender jawline, sharp nose, et cetera. But once he saw her, really saw her, he couldn't take his eyes off of her. She looked ethereal, with sandy blonde hair that framed her face in a sloppy bob cut. The brightest and most vibrant green eyes he'd ever seen, rivaling - no, surpassing - those of England's. She had a beautifully slim figure, well-endowed if it was safe for him to comment to himself. He felt it too, that she was his destiny. If "destiny" was even the right word for her. She had a glow around her - God's radiance, she called it, proclaiming to others that she was indeed His chosen. And he could see a fire in her eyes that burned, hot and bright, in his soul and ignited his will to fight.

She was staggering. If ever anyone embodied French power, French will, France, it was her. It wasn't him. It wasn't the Nation.

_France grasped the handle and heaved with all his might, inching the chest twice his size towards her door. Even as strong as he was, it was hard for him! The wood howled on the stone floor; France grit his teeth against it, hoping that he didn't disturb anyone enough to be reprimanded. As soon as he was close to the door he dropped it where it was and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead before waltzing straight into the room. He threw the door open. "Wait until you see this! How much do you weigh?" he spewed. "And how big is your chest? The Dauphin-"_

_When France looked at her, even with her tomboyish outfit, with the shirt that was much too big and the leggings that hugged her shape and made her look even more ridiculous, his heart jumped in his chest. He loved the way her collarbones were just exposed by the ties of the shirt. He loved the sharp lines of her face. He loved the way the shirt hung loosely off her shoulders, leaving him to imagine how it really looked under there. And how warm she'd feel to his hands if he got to touch her. Her, this ethereal creature. This beautiful woman, touched by God, burdened with responsibility. The two of them sat in awkward silence while France stared at her, until she broke it._

_"What?"_

_France blinked. "Le Dauphin has sent me to take your measurements."_

_"Monsieur?" she asked, shooting him a perfectly insulted look._

_In France's head, he had it all planned out. He knew what he was going to say - it was so simple! All he had to do was tell her to try on the armor. And if it didn't fit, Charles would make her another set. But in the spell of her green eyes, it jumbled up in his mind like a knot and came out even worse. "He, um, he has this armor, you see, and he wanted to see if it would fit but he told me you had to be certain measurements though and he said that women have different measurements than men and so if you weren't the right measurements he would make you another set just for you but first he wanted you to try this on and so here I brought the chest it's kind of outside your door let me go grab it!" He stumbled, he stuttered, he tripped on his way out the door and had to run to catch his balance._

_He heard her giggle behind him - the sound electrified his blood in his veins. It sounded like joy itself. Like if an Angel could laugh, that's what it would sound like._

_France drug the chest into her room and threw it open. Jeanne peered in, the glimmer of awe shining in her eyes. As she leaned over, her over-sized shirt hung low and exposed a lot more than she intended. But she didn't notice, and while France so very wanted to stare, he resisted the urge, staring at her face._

_"I don't know how to wear it," she admitted._

_"I'll help you try it on." They pulled everything out piece by piece. "So, when you put armor on, start from the bottom up. These things go over your boots. They're called sabatons. You slip them on like regular shoes." He offered her his hand, and when she took it he led her over to her bed. She sat and he knelt in front of her, taking her heel in his hand. He gently lifted her foot up and slipped the sabatons on._

_"I feel like royalty," she commented absently. France looked up at her and smiled, but she seemed embarrassed by the comment. "Sorry."_

_"Don't be. You feel like royalty because you are a Princess, Jeanne d'Arc."_

_She smiled, and France returned to the chest for the greaves. "Then the greaves go around your calves - if you get new armor, ask for them to extend past your ankles just so you're protected. I'll do it!" he insisted, when she stood to take them from him. "Just hold them up for now. I know they're really big. Then for the cuisses you put the belt on first. Oh. Wait. Let the greaves go and lift up your arms for a second."_

_She did as she was told, and France did the honors of reaching around her to circle it around her waist. He could have clasped his arms. He could have hugged her frame, he could have hugged her warmth to his and melted from it._

_But he didn't._

_He cinched the belt around her and Jeanne followed him to the chest despite his protests. She rummaged through, finally pulling a metal cup-shaped piece, strapped to leather belts. "What's this piece for?" God, she was so innocent. She was so perfect and innocent._

_France about died laughing, crying as he explained to her that it was a codpiece, used for protecting a knight's manhood on the field._

The armor did not fit her at all. The sabatons were far too large for her feet. The greaves could have wrapped around her slender legs twice, and the belt for the cuisses could have went around her trimmed waist at least three times. The chest plate swallowed her up, and they didn't even try any of the arm pieces. France took her measurements, and Charles had her armor made within the week.

Her statue in the gallery wore the armor Charles made for her. France remembered helping her into it every time they rode into battle. He remembered being her Prince, swiftly kissing the tops of each holy foot as he slipped the sabatons on her feet like glass slippers. He remembered clasping the greaves around her calves, tracing the contour of muscle with his fingers before the metal closed them off to him. Every time she put them on, every time without fail, she would kick her leg straight out and roll her ankles to check mobility. Every time.

Even though she had leggings on, France would turn away while she hitched up her skirt and clasped the belt around her waist. Jealous, bitterly, bitterly jealous that she wouldn't allow him to do it for her. Consciously banning the ridiculous thoughts. She would also attach her own cuisses to her thighs, and the only solace France was allowed was closing the leather buckles around the backs of her legs. He didn't dare make any extra attempts to touch her. Even though there wasn't a blemish in those leggings and he imagined rubbing his hands there. He would emerge from under her skirt, hands shaking and heart pounding and face sweating. Charles had a special chest plate made for her, more narrow about the waist and then more bowed around the hips to accommodate her figure.

She would slip it over her chain mail shirt, and France would tighten the buckles around her shoulders, around the sides, and his hands would gently brush her waist but he wouldn't touch her, wouldn't touch her, wouldn't touch her. Despite every nerve screaming at him. God, she was so beautiful. She was an Angel herself - she had to be! That must have been why she could see them so readily. She was one herself. And her wings were lined with gold, the feathers were the dirty blonde of her hair, speckled with light. And she would save him. She would save France and she would save him and then he could marry her. He could marry her and hold on to her forever and love her forever the way she deserved it because she was grace and she was elegance and she was everything he wanted to be.

He would hold the vambraces while she slipped her arms through, and the etchings and design made her look even more like a goddess. He would slide them up her arms and clasp them to the curve of her shoulder, and he would admire how the sharp point forged at the elbow made her look more sculpted and how the shield-like plates that protected above and below her elbows made her look fierce at the same time. France used to stare at her throat and collarbones while he laced the pauldrons overtop. Poking out just over the top of the chest plate's curve. Not at all teasing him, because she wasn't like that. But at the same time teasing him all the same. And every time, when he finished lacing the pauldrons she would roll her shoulders. And the way her head turned and the way she exposed her neck and her jawline and her sharp lines to him when she looked down her arms would burn inside of him.

And every time, he got the chance to hold her hands. Every time, just before he would slip the gauntlets over her hands, he would take them in his. And he would hold them. And lace his fingers in hers if she'd allow. And he'd stroke her thumb and the soft part of her hand with his thumb. And he would stare into her eyes and he would let her know that no matter what, no matter what happened in this life or in this world, he'd always follow her. He'd always believe her and believe in her. If she had no one else in this world, she had France. And blue would stare into green and everything would be absolutely right with the world. For a moment, they would forget they were riding into battle. That she could die and that he'd be alone. And they'd share a simple moment. He would kiss the top of her hands. And he'd lose them when he slid the gauntlets over them. And he'd pray it wouldn't be the last time he saw them.

He would wrap the scarf around her neck for her, and he'd brush her messy hair back with the same hairbrush that he used on his own locks. He brushed her hair until it shone like his. He stroked and brushed and caressed until he felt satisfied that she looked the part of the savior that she was and he held her hair back while she slipped the helmet over her head.

How appropriate that her sculpted face angled down towards him. How appropriate that she looked down upon him from her perch where she belonged. Watching over him in stone and in Heaven.

_"Want to dance?"_

_Her eyes widened. She looked like France just asked her to do something a little more intimate than dancing. "What?"_

_"Do you want to dance with me?"_

_"I would, Monsieur, of course. But I'm afraid all I know are country dances-"_

_"What's wrong, Maiden?" La Hire asked her. "Don't they teach you how to dance in the countrysides? The same way they don't teach you to read or write, or wash your clothes and hair, apparently-"_

_"You stop that!" France yelled, placing himself between her and him. She looked so frightened, so out of place. So lost in the big, dreary world that was the Dauphin's Court. Hands clasped tightly in her lap, never raising her eyes past anyone's tunics. There was no relief for her. They harassed her all night. Every one who had the social status to mock her did mock her._

_How dare they, France thought angrily. How dare they attack the very woman who would bring them salvation? Whether or not they believed her, how dare they pick on a poor girl? He turned back to her. "Jeanne d'Arc, Maiden of Lorraine," he said, emphasizing her new title in his voice. It tasted sweet on his tongue, and he wished he had an excuse to just repeat it over and over and over. "It would be my honor to lead you in a dance." He knelt down beside her chair and bowed his head low, letting his arm curl elegantly in front of him a few times._

_Her normally assertive voice crumbled in her embarrassment. "B-but I don't . . . "_

_France leaned in to her ear and whispered, "Don't worry. I'll lead you." He pulled away and looked straight into her green eyes. And he set his own alight with a command: 'Do not let them intimidate you. Do not show them any weakness. Do not show them your embarrassment.' He nodded once more, and he was finally able to coax her hand into his. And he noticed the corner of her mouth quirk up into a smile. And he saw the gratitude transfer from hers to his. And that glow that always seemed to be around her surged and almost blinded him and she was just heart-stoppingly radiant. He knew he'd have trouble breathing soon. He led her straight out to the middle of the floor, and other couples around them cleared the floor like they had the plague. Jeanne's head swiveled and watched them go, and France saw the panic arise in her body language. So he quickly tried to reassure her._

_"I promise I won't let them embarrass you. I am on your side, mon ange."_

_"'Ton ange?'" she asked._

_"Oui, bien sûr," he said. "You are France's angel - my angel! It doesn't make you uncomfortable, does it?"_

_"No, not at all," she said, shaking her head. And her short, dirty blonde hair almost brushed across his face because she shook her head so hard. And France stared down at her through his lashes and kissed her hand, much to the chagrin of his aching heart. Anything more would have been improper, but . . ._

_He knew he looked like a prim, proper, pampered pageant-boy next to her simple beauty. Others may have thought the other way around, that she looked plain compared to him. But she could never look bad in his eyes and never would. He had on gaudy rust-colored leggings - the style then, of course. Made from the finest, and softest fabrics imported from Italy. And his cream-colored tunic, with the puffiest sleeves ever, and with gold fleurs-des-lis peppering, it fell just above mid-thigh. The tunic had its own black, elbow-length and skin-tight "gauntlets" sewed onto its sleeves, which kept the puffiness in check below his elbows. He wore a thick belt made of linked gold rings, and three little yellow jewels in the front, which he clasped loosely enough to hang from his hips instead of around his waist._

_Rust and gold? Ugh! France could vomit with how atrocious 15th century fashion was._

_He also had a decorative rust-colored cloak to go with it, but he left it at his seat. It would just get in the way. Same with the hat. He let his hair fall freely in its perfectly curled ringlets._

_Jeanne had on a white dress. Though, white would be pushing it. It was crusted with dirt and practically thread-bare at the hems. Didn't anybody bother to get her a dress? Didn't anybody care enough about her, or her mission? Anybody who knew about France should be making a huge deal out of his preference for her. The thought made him burn with resentment, but he swallowed it down with a promise: he'd make her feel respected. He'd make her feel loved._

_"What dance do you want to do?" he asked her._

_"I don't know any court dances-"_

_"Name a country dance! I know all of them!"_

_"The Farandole?"_

_"Farandole it is!" France clapped to the musicians (who had long since gone silent anyway), and said, "You heard her, the Maiden of Lorraine! We desire a Farandole!"_

_"Can we do a Farandole with two people?"_

_"Of course we can!"_

_The drum pounded out a simple beat in bouncy 6/8 time. France grabbed her hand, massaging her knuckle with his thumb, before kissing her hand and bowing low to her. Upon straightening up, she curtsied in reply, and the flute started the melody. France moved next to her, and at a good starting point, they began their dance. Shuffle to the left. ONE a-two kick, left kick, and down. Shuffle to the right._

_He wasn't supposed to look, but every time he caught her in his peripheral, with her eyebrows furrowed in concentration and her shoulders tense - this girl - no, this woman! His heart surged, and with a sudden rise of emotion he faced her and grabbed around her waist, hoisting her in a lift. She gasped, staring deeply into his eyes._

_'What are you doing?'_

_'Having fun!' he said silently back to her. He winked playfully, and as he let her down, before she even had a chance to react he took her hand again and spun her around. Her dress flared around her and he watched her shoulders relax as he twirled her into him. Grabbing her waist again, he lifted her again, spinning around with her. A childish giggle escaped from her lips and it was so precious and so cute coming from her that it made him giggle too. He let her down, and they did another round of the real Farandole steps._

_He stared at her the whole time. And she stared at him, with a joy in her eyes that wasn't there once since she set foot in Chinon. Joy belonged on her face. Sparking in her eyes._

_"You are," she sputtered, "absolutely ridiculous."_

_"And you love it?"_

_She blushed, looking down. "I do," she laughed. "Of course I do."_

_He laughed, tugging her hand to pull her close again. She moved to do the next step, but France linked his arm around her waist and held her there. She looked up at him in confusion, and he said it. "I'm so glad I met you, Jeanne d'Arc, Maiden of Lorraine. You are a real wonder, a force of nature, and you toss me around until I can't even think. You make my heart so happy, and you lift my spirits and when I look at you, I see hope. You've given me hope and that's something I haven't had in a long time. Thank you."_

_"I'm glad I met you, too, Monsieur France," she practically whispered. He wanted her to say more. He was dying to hear her say more. But the drum beat slowed down, and the flute sounded like it was reaching its end._

_"Call me François." France let her go and held her at arm's length, bowing low to her. She curtsied in reply, and at the final chord, France pulled her in for a tight hug. Which she returned. And when he felt her arms around him, all was right with the world._

France loved love. He loved the rush of heat that came with seeing someone. He loved the feeling of his heart about to burst with emotion, he loved feeling like he just wanted to squeeze something.

He never loved her intimately, but he loved her more than he ever loved anyone, and he knew in his heart he'd never love anyone the same way again.

France rode behind her into Orléans. The French standard, the Fleur-de-lis went first, as it should have. And then Jeanne, and then France, and then her other Captains. He would have rode abreast to her - in fact, he tried. But he couldn't ride abreast to her because the crowd was already gathered there to intercept her. Peasants, all wanting to see the Maiden from Lorraine. To see for themselves if the legend was true, if their savior had really come. And they touched her white horse and they touched her armored feet and they adored her like the saint she was.

And they spoke her name, they moaned it, they WAILED it, "Jeanne! Jeanne! Jeanne!" They tugged at her colors and at her arms and they lunged to touch her hair, so desperately that France had to nudge his horse forward and block at least some of them. And behind her Captains came the caravan with food for the starving and livestock for the slaughter and for raising, and provisions so desperately needed. And battalion after battalion of soldiers.

And whether or not they believed in her Mission, France thought after, she was still their savior. She was their hope for a free France, as she was his. Free of the tyrannical occupation of England.

_"Look - this bridge, leading straight to the South Gate of Orléans from the Château de Tourelles, do you see it?" Jeanne said, putting her metal-gloved finger on it. France bristled in discomfort. The way she was saying it sounded extremely condescending. And although they needed it, she needed them to trust her._

_" . . . Yes," Captain Dunois sighed bitterly. "Yes. I see it."_

_"The Tourelles end of this bridge was destroyed!"_

_"Yes!" Jean, Duke of Alençon asserted. "My force destroyed it!" he said arrogantly._

_"Right! That means that the Tourelles will be quiet while the English rebuild it," Jeanne argued. "Because they have no means of positioning any sort of force or artillery across the bridge, to the direct South of Orléans! Make sense?"_

_No one answered her. France nodded his ascent. "Yes," he said. "It makes sense."_

_She stared at France a second longer than she had to. "Thank you. I say we need to re-cross the Loire, pass the Tourelles and retake the Augustine fort tomorrow while they're busy. And after that attack the Tourelles directly from the South side! The broken bridge will cut off their escape route and trap them in their own fortress. We'll set up artillery on the sound side of the bridge, and all along the ridge, firing across the moats. And archers. If we have the archers cross and fire upon the fortress from the North, the concentration will pull their attention away from the South. Where Captain Bonnefoy and I will lead the charge. We'll be able to breach the walls from here," she said, pointing to another point on the fortress wall._

_" . . . Orléans sits on the North bank of the Loire," Captain Dunois said._

_"What's your point?" Jeanne argued._

_"Look at all these garrisons surrounding Orléans on the North bank of the Loire in English control - Saint Loup from the East, Saint Laurent from the West. What is to prevent General Talbot and the English forces from massing and attacking Orléans from the North?"_

_"God will stop them. God tells me they will not launch an attack on Orléans from the North." Disgusted glances were shared all around her, but either Jeanne chose to ignore them, or she truly was focused on the map in front of her. "We give the English one final chance to leave the Tourelles peacefully. If they do not, we attack. Tomorrow."_

_"That makes no sense!" Dunois said, slamming his fist on the table. "The Tourelles is impregnable already! And they WILL attack Orléans from the North! They will! And while the Augustine and the Tourelles are under fire, why WOULDN'T the English send reinforcements from Champs Saint Privé and Saint Jean-le-Blanc on the SOUTH BANK?!"_

_"I swear to you, God-"_

_"God, God, God! Where was God when the entire half of France was being occupied?"_

_Jeanne winced like she was physically hurt. "All you have to do is do what I say, and you will be victorious! What could be simpler than that? God is commanding me! He is screaming at me, screaming, screaming, and none of you will listen!"_

_"And who will follow you anyway, hm? What will people say when our power has been usurped by a woman?"_

_Jeanne withdrew a step. France tried to come to her defense. "You all are ridiculous! She is the Maiden of Lorraine! She walks around us with God's radiance!" France rested a hand on her shoulder, but she shook him off._

_"Then what does our Nation say?" he said, gesturing to France. He probably hoped France would crack under the pressure of direct fire and take his side. He was probably hoping that France's National intuition would side with him. Oh, they wanted France's opinion? Fine. He'd give his opinion._

_"I take Jeanne's side," he said without hesitation._

_"What?"_

_"She has more than proven her connection to God. If she says God is on my side, I believe her, and if she says that God will protect Orléans from the North, I believe her. Plus, you gentlemen that have been in battle with me before know that I'd get a bad feeling if we were setting up for failure. I do not get that feeling with Jeanne's plan."_

_"Do you get it from mine?"_

_" . . . No, Dunois. But Jeanne's connection to God gives her a leg up. I'm sor-" He almost apologized - why? He wasn't sorry. "I'd follow Jeanne."_

_Dunois threw his hands up in defeat and stomped from the room, plate armor and chain mail clanking with each step._

Every day, every single day, it didn't matter if she had a good plan or a crazy one. It didn't matter if she was at all victorious the day before. 'Well, she's a woman. What does she know?' And they very conveniently forgot who God was. And they stopped asking France, too, knowing he'd usurp them further. Which he had the authority to do! They knew France could have the final say, at least Charles VII gave him that luxury in a time when he had very little others. So of course they tried to prevent any situation where they asked France, 'What should we do?'

Before the battle, before they finally settled on Jeanne's plan, France stopped by her room in the Orléans tavern where the Captains were staying.

_France knocked on her door. "Jeanne?" When he entered, he found her on her knees by the window, hands clasped so tightly they were shaking. Muttering fervently in prayer._

_"Sire Père, qui es es ceaus, sanctifiez soit li tuens uons; avigne li tuens regnes. Soit faite ta volonte, si comme ele est faite el ciel, si foit ele faite en terre. Nostre pain de chascun jor nos donne hui, et pardone-nos nos meffais, si comme nos pardonons a cos qui maeffait nos ont. Sire, ne soffre que nos soions tempte par mauvesse temptation; mes, Sire, delivre-nos de mal. Sire Père . . . "_

_He listened to her go through the prayer at least three times. But not once did he think to interrupt her. How could he interrupt her special connection to God, when He was granting them so many graces? No, he waited until she finished, crossing herself for the final time._

_"Jeanne." She startled, and France realized she never even heard him enter. She sniffled thickly, and even with her back to him France could tell she lowered her head to wipe her eyes._

_" . . . Yes?"_

_Wait, she was crying? "I, um, I was just- um . . . " What had he been saying? "I'm sorry. About them. They're all just a bunch of-"_

_"Don't," she said. "Leave them be. It is understandable that they'd be wary of me. I'm just a-" Her breath hitched and her voice cracked, and tears threatened to spill again. "Just a girl from the country." She spat the word bitterly, like it was poison on her tongue._

_France stepped forward and knelt down behind her, wrapping his arms around her. He pressed his chest to her back, he wanted her to feel his calm, strong heartbeat. He wanted her to know that he trusted her. That she was beautiful and he trusted her with his life. "I think you and I both know that you are so, so much more than that, mon ange. Come on, let's go to bed. We need to rest up for tomorrow."_

_He took her hand and pulled her up from her kneeling position, guiding her over to the lonely bed against the wall. He let her get comfortable, reluctant to leave her in her sadness. She nodded at him, his permission to go, but just as he turned around, he saw her turn over and face the wall. She exposed her entire back to him, her dirty dress. The entire contour of her body, outlined in the sheets for him._

_"What are you doing-?" France was climbing into her bed before he even knew what he was doing. All he did was wrap his arms around her._

_He rested his chin on her shoulder. "It will be alright." Feeling her heat._

_"I know . . . I'm ready."_

_" . . . Are you scared?"_

_Jeanne shook her head. "No. We're going to succeed, I know it. It may take a couple battles, but I trust God and I trust you. We will retake Orléans-"_

_"No, I mean of dying."_

_She paused, craning her neck to face him. Her eyebrows were furrowed in anger. "Dying? Do you mock me?"_

_"Mock you? Why would I mock you?"_

_"You know you can't die so you tease others about it?"_

_"Of course not! I was just curious! You don't have to answer that," he said, peeling himself from her with reluctance. "I'm sorry."_

_"N-no. Yes? I'm not sure. I am afraid of battle, but not of dying, if that's possible."_

_"Of course it is." France settled back down next to her, but she rolled around to face him._

_"And what about you? You probably aren't afraid of much, knowing you cannot die."_

_"It's a little more complicated than that," he told her. "Nations can fade away, too. It happened to Rome, to Hispania - even my father, Gaul, disappeared as well."_

_"Really? That's sad," she said._

_"And then when England took the top half of my body, my land, I thought it was the end for me. I thought . . . Never mind. It's stupid." How in the world could he expect a human's pity? Talk about selfish, France._

_"It's not stupid."_

_" . . . It is."_

_"François," she said. That's all she said, was his name. And her green eyes pooled into his and seemed to scoop the thoughts straight from his mind._

_" . . . I started to show symptoms of fading away. And I started settling my affairs, leaving them in place for either England to take or a new France to use to start with. And I grew afraid. For someone like me, what even is death? Do I even have a soul like a human? And does it even get the chance for the human Heaven or Hell? I don't know."_

_"If you're asking me because of my connection to God, I don't know. And they are questions that I hope you never get answered."_

_"Thank you," he said._

_"That's why I'm here, is it not?"_

_"It is." They lapsed into a comfortable silence._

_"Do you believe in destiny?" she asked after a while._

_" . . . I do now," he said._

They hardly got any sleep before the invasion. France would always blame himself for the next day, when Dunois started the invasion without her. Without their Maiden and without their Nation. Both of them were too deeply asleep to hear anybody leaving that morning. They had to ride in together and stop an already fleeing French army.

They intercepted Dunois and the other Captains halfway across the field of retreat. Both her and France started shouting immediately.

_"What happened? What happened?"_

_"Who gave the order to attack?"_

_"Dunois, you bastard!"_

_Suddenly, Jeanne hoisted her banner and kicked her white horse forward, towards the crowd of retreating soldiers._

_"Jeanne!" France shouted. His stomach wormed inside of him. He grew momentarily dizzy, teetering in the saddle. "No, no! She'll be KILLED!" He drew his sword and charged after her. "JEANNE!"_

_"Follow me!" she screamed, over and over to anybody who would listen. "Follow me and I will give you victory! Follow me and GOD will give you victory! Au nom de Dieu! In Dei nomine! In Dei nomine!" Her glow shone bright, so brightly France wondered if anyone else could see it._

_France watched a crowd of tired, bloodied, broken men rally behind her. He watched as their eyes lit up at the sight of their Maiden, and he watched the embarrassment of defeat burn away into a fire of rage. All around her, shouts rose up, swords and weapons lifted in the air. France's own heart surged, and he watched the very woman who embodied French hope charge headlong towards an English fortress. He charged after her. "Allez!" he had yelled. "Allez, mes frères!"_

And that was only the Augustine. The same day she wanted to retake the Tourelles.

By the time Dunois and the war council convinced Jeanne to retake Saint-Loup first, Charles VII called France back to Court. He had to hear about her Saint-Loup victory through a letter she wrote. He returned by the time they planned to retake the Tourelles. It took them two days. The first day busted when she was shot.

_France and Jeanne helped the men lift the ladder, and she yelled in triumph as it clattered against the stone wall of the Tourelles._

_"Go! Get up the ladder! Go!" she shouted, grabbing men and shoving them towards the wall._

_She went first and France followed, both of them blocking their faces from stones, arrows whizzing past, anything flying towards their faces from the battlements. France looked behind him to make sure they were being followed. "Let's go! Come on! Vive la France! Pour la liberté! Allez! Allez-"_

_Something heavy, something very heavy crashed down on his head. The shot to his head and neck knocked his vision away. Metal clanged against metal, setting his ears ringing, and he was ripped backwards off the side of the ladder. France hit the ground, the metal thing landed on top of him, knocking all the air out of him with a whoosh! His chest plate dented, crushing his chest further. He choked, he gasped air in that didn't reach his lungs. Ow, ow, can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe!_

_Chest plate off! Chest plate off! "Help me!" he yelled to anybody that could listen. He sucked air in but it did not relieve the pressure. "Help me! Can't breath! I can't breathe!" He sat there and waited for his breath to come back. He had to. Nobody could help him. "Jeanne! Where are you!" By then his vision had come back to an odd sort of black-and-white, and he craned his neck up the ladder, ignoring a sharp pain that shot down his whole back._

_She wasn't on the ladder. She was what fell on him._

_"Jeanne! Jeanne!" he screamed. He searched the immediate area, and when he found her, his blood ran cold in his veins. She had an arrow shaft sticking out of her chest. France scrambled over to her. "No! Jeanne!" He crawled over to her, kneeling over her. "No, no!" She couldn't be dead. She couldn't die! He quickly put his ear to her chest, cursing the ringing in his ears. The silence otherwise ached in his gut like a sword blow. "JEANNE!" he screamed. And he heard a deep shudder and a rush of air in her chest._

_She was alive. God be praised._

_Her eyes fluttered open and she moaned quietly, and France gathered her up in his arms. He dizzily stumbled away from the fortress, praying he didn't get shot in the back while he took her to safety._

She returned to the battle maybe 20 minutes later, after having the arrow removed, but by then, the French forces were broken and in need of a rest.

_Jeanne rode forward with France in tow, lifting high her colors with her good arm. She shouted across the field to the commanders in the Tourelles._

_"Talbot!" she screamed. "Talbot!"_

_"And England, address England," France told her._

_"Talbot! England! I give you one last warning! The King of Heaven commands you through me, Jeanne the Maiden, to leave your fortresses and return to your country! And if you do not, so I shall make an uproar that will that will be forever remembered!"_

_There was a pause from the fortress. Everyone, even France, held their breaths, waiting for a reply. Everyone but Jeanne. She just looked furious. Suddenly, a head popped up from the battlements. France couldn't see many details but the shock of blonde hair caught his eye. "That's England," she told Jeanne. "The bastard."_

_"Don't swear, François. Shh! Listen,"_

_England yelled something. It was a little muffled by the distance, but as it carried on the wind, France caught the tail end of it. "Froggy whore," he thought he heard. "Sent . . . Hell once . . . Go back . . . Devil!"_

_"Fair enough," Jeanne sighed tiredly. She wheeled her horse around, and her and France rode back to the army._

_"Gentlemen!" Jeanne shouted out to the rabble, dismounting. "Gather around me, and take a knee." To France's surprise they did as they were told, and Jeanne waited until they were all in place to begin. Actually, it didn't surprise him at all. Everyone who saw her jump the stone barrier around the Saint-Loup and cut Englishmen down by herself before anyone else got there believed her now. "Let us pray," she said, crossing herself. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen. Bless us, O Lord, and keep us safe as we carry out Your will today. Subdue, under us, those who rise against us, and allow Your strength to be made perfect in our weakness. We pray You pull us out of any any snare the English have laid for us, for we rely on Your strength. In Jesus' name, we pray. Amen."_

_A muttered chorus of, "Amen," rose up around Jeanne, and she crossed herself again. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."_

_Her page brought her horse back over, but France ran and caught her before she mounted. He gently touched her arm, and as soon as she turned around he hugged her tightly. "If we lose each other, good luck."_

_"Good luck, François."_

_France held her at arms' length. "Here's one for courage," he said. He kissed her left cheek. "Here's one for cunning." Her right cheek. "And for a little bit of luck," he said, kissing her forehead. "See you when it's over." He supported her hand while she mounted. She handed her banner to the squire, then drew her sword._

_"Let all those who love me . . . follow me!" she yelled. A chorus of yells rose up around her, and she led the charge with France in tow._

_They didn't lose each other. Somehow they managed to stay next to each other the whole time._

There were very few things in his life that France would say were better than England's face from the parapet when France and Jeanne burst through the gate.

The fire and smoke grew so thick France could no longer see her face. And he screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed-

France had to shake his head of the memory. A dizzy spell assaulted his temples, vibrating in his skull, and he had to slump against her statue to keep himself upright. His vision faded away, his ears roared with the crackle of fire and screams - both hers and his. He froze there, sure that if he moved he would pass out right there on the floor. And he waited for it to fade, arms wrapped around her cold stone greaves. He felt safe to move when he could see etchings on her greaves and when her statue stopped gyrating in front of him. He glanced up at her, stared into her dead stone eyes. And she looked disappointed, clutching her sword to her like it was the only comfort she had left. Not him, anymore. He'd squandered everything she did for him so much that he could no longer be a comfort, no matter how many times he said he believed in her.

If he believed in her he would have tried harder with Louis. If he cared about French glory he would have . . . done better.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "You led me to glory, and now look where I am. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." It wasn't working. It wasn't doing his pain justice. It wasn't a strong enough word to explain his remorse for allowing himself to fall so far from grace. It wasn't the right way to explain his contrition for ruining everything she did for him. How disappointed he was in himself, and how . . . None of it worked.

He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to move on after leaving such a pathetic apology. But he had to.

He skipped the rest of the statues. He didn't feel up for the memories anymore.

The opera already started by the time he walked into the foyer. He didn't even know what was playing. He didn't have a playbill. He arrived so late the staff already retired for the performance. France could hear a lone tenor voice soaring above the music from inside the performance hall - speaking French! That was odd. Italian was the so-called "Language of the Opera." Hearing an opera in anything else was off-putting for a moment. He listened carefully for the words.

 _" . . . -cours des for- . . . vas enceinte. Touché mon destin . . . en vain, . . . -ainte, ma triste plainte. Ma triste plainte_."

Some of them were swallowed up by the venue. But he could tell by the contour of the melody that it was _Orphée et Eurydice_. The 1774 French revival of Christoph Willibald Gluck's Italian version from 1762. Louis XIV would be proud that he remembered something, especially after he made France slave over it. _Orphée et Eurydice_ was a tragedy . . . France really wasn't in the mood for death and sadness. He'd had enough of that just thinking about Jeanne. He wanted to laugh until he cried, at a bare minimum. But, he had nothing else to do, so he still decided to take a seat.

The stairways to the upper balcony where Louis and Marie were sitting loomed in front of him, laughing, jeering, daring him to go up them. He no longer had the fortitude to accept their challenge. Although, when he entered the lower level and sat extremely close to the stage, he did manage to peek a glance to the Box Level seats. To try and find Louis. But the angle was poor. He only saw the white wig and Louis' eyes, focused intently on the production. France pushed and wormed his way to an open seat, ignoring the huffs and coughs and rude glared he received in reply.

" _Dieux! Je la reverrais_!" Orpheus shouted on stage.

" _Oui, mais pour l'obtenir, il faut te résoudre à remplir, l'ordre que . . ._ " L'amour answered. Hah! L'amour! Irony truly hated France.

He listened, but only half-heartedly. He had to keep his mind from wandering back to her - but small things. Like, remembering how she sometimes blinked one time harder than the others in a cluster, or her face caked with sweat and dirty and blood, but she still looked elegant. Or that one time when France handed her a pen and tried to teach her to write her name-

The sound of chuckling in his section ripped France from his reverie with a start. Giggling, like a giddy school girl. With a wheeze on the front end of it that instantly irritated him. France and the person next to him made direct eye contact with the same confused expressions on their faces, though France wasn't in a confrontational mood after his trip down memory lane. They would quiet down soon enough.

France heard the slap of skin, like they tried to cover their mouth. Trying to stifle their giggles, but all they ended up doing was snorting louder. France turned and started scanning the crowd, blatantly looking for the perpetrator. But, he found out, it wasn't coming from his section at all. No, wait! It was, right? He swore he heard it directly behind him- No! It was above him!

France couldn't see Louis on his way in, but Louis must have inched his chair forward. France had full view of him, leaning over the balcony giggling hysterically. Mon Dieu, he was so embarrassing! People were starting to stare! France's second-hand embarrassment rose up in his cheeks, flushing his face out, and he had to listen in absolute mortification as Louis' giggles morphed into that ugly laugh. That guttural, real, ugly laugh, that overpowered the sound of the orchestra. Suddenly, his hand shot out and pointed down at someone in France's section. He looked around. Who was he pointing at?

Peoples' heads turned, whispers sparked all around him like a riot. And France realized they were talking about him. Louis was pointing at France. Laughing, laughing, laughing.

"What?" he asked on impulse, taking a step back. "Why are you laughing at me?"

In one eerie motion, everyone in his section twisted in their seats and looked at him. His heart skipped a beat, his stomach wormed inside of itself. Louis' contagious laugh infected everyone in France's section. The music stopped abruptly, and all that echoed in the hall was the laughs all around, echoing, surrounding him, amplifying by person and by venue. The entire performance stopped.

"Stop it!" he yelled. "Louis! Stop it right now!"

But Louis was too in hysterics to listen to him. Everyone was laughing. Laughing at him. He had to get out. He had to, he had to, before his face grew too hot and before . . . He got up and sprinted through the seats, knocking knees and banging elbows and knocking people over left and right, but he had to get out, had to get out! The chuckling followed him. It followed him through the foyer. He shut the door behind him but he could still hear it, and it crawled under his skin and scuttled around like fire ants. Their points followed his back, even after he turned the corner he felt them still pointing at him.

He threw open the doors to the Stone Gallery.

And almost screamed.

Every statue's head swiveled in his direction. And they were all chuckling in unison. He froze there, unable to comprehend what was happening in front of his eyes but still seeing it all the same. "Stop it!" he screamed, covering his ears. "Stop!"

He took off down the hall, closing his eyes and his ears against their onslaught. Staggering back and forth and knowing he would hit something eventually but not really caring. But the sound was coming from inside his head and he couldn't block it out no matter how hard he tried. He ran past Marie de Bourbon, with her folded hands. She looked like she just clapped them together in delight at his failure. Smile breaking through her chubby cheeks. Shoulders heaving. Past Béatrice de Bourbon, with her tinkling, bell-like laugh that hung in the air and rang in his ears. Philipe Auguste, Constance of Castille, and both of them turned to follow him while he ran past. Henry I, Louis III.

Louis III, laughing at him. His very heart dropped into his stomach.

France approached her statue. Swore he wouldn't look. There was no way he could handle-

He looked anyway. Jeanne's effigy cried.

She still had her sword, but cradled in the crook of her elbow. Both her hands covered her face, and her sobs wracked her body so hard she trembled. "Jeanne?" France yelled, pausing before her. "N-no! Jeanne, don't cry! Don't cry! Look at me!"

She hunched over further, hair spilling forward and further covering her face.

"Jeanne, look at me! JEANNE!" he yelled. No, no, no, he couldn't make her cry! No! "I know I messed up but I promise you I'll fix it! I'll make France rich and powerful again, and I'll rebuild everything that you built for us that Louis destroyed! Jeanne, LOOK AT ME!" he screamed. He jumped up and grabbed her cold stone arm to wrench it away from her face-

And "woke up" outside the Opera House doors. He never went in.

 

 

 _June 1, 1788_  
Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments  
France's Bedchamber

 

 

_'France,_

_Agincourt, you asshat. 25 October, 1415._

_Joan of Arc, burned at the stake for heresy and witchcraft. 30 May, 1431._

_Bastard._

_Arthur Kirkland; The Kingdom of Great Britain'_

 

 

No. No way.

There was no way irony hated him this much.

France refused to allow Britain to call up her memory, and in such poor taste. He would bring up Jeanne on his own terms, and he would remember her for who she was - brave, articulate, passionate in warfare.

 

_'10 March, 1429_

_I now dictate this Letter to a Cleric the Day after my Audience with Charles, Dauphin of France, in Chinon:_

_Six People accompanied me from my Home in Domrèmy. Six fully armed King's Men. And on my Way to Chinon from Domrèmy, my Escort told me about you. They told me of an odd Being who attends the Dauphin's Court and calls himself "France." I pictured a towering Figure. A built Man, at least 10 Cubits high, atop an even taller White Mount. His rich and dark Hair billows elegantly in the Wind behind him, he lifts high the Standard of Shimmering Silk, and in his other Hand he grasps a Sword made of the purest Sea-Pearl. I pictured another Angel sent by God._

_My Escort laughed. They told me the Man who calls himself "France" is no more than a Boy of Sixteen. A Boy, they told me, and yet the Way they described him made him seem Anything but. They described a Boy with chin-length Hair like the Sunlight itself stopped to bask atop his Head. They said his Eyes were like the clearest, and most cloudless Sky. Of course they said More. But I could not understand and so their Words were lost on me. Despite their Claims to your Age I could not help but still picture a Man._

_Almost immediately before I threw myself at the Dauphin's feet, I saw you. A Boy indeed; you can't be any older than me at Seventeen. Maybe Fifteen Years old at the youngest. With the blonde Hair they described and a Poise that seemed both otherworldly and completely Human. You are walking Juxtapositions - You hold your Head high but your inner Pride does not match it. You keep your Eyes strong but emanate Frailty. They flick about in Awareness but your Mind wanders._

_I saw the Eyes of a Prisoner. Trapped in every Sense of the Word, and in every Way a Person can be trapped._

_I'm right, aren't I? God's Angels told Me Thus._

_Another Vision from God reached Me after our Eyes met. I had a Vision of you as a Man - maybe Twenty Years old. A gold Crown sat atop the Dauphin's Head, and you were taller and stronger because of our Victories over the English. When the Images faded, above your very Head the Heavens opened up. I knew that God sent Me to meet you. To fight for you and to fight with you. I knew that you were my Mission._

_You simply stared at me, just as Everyone in the Room, before I showed you God's Sign. But your Stare was not one of Malice, Skepticism, Scrutiny, Accusation, or even Humor. Yours was a heavy Stare, of one gazing upon the World for the first Time, trying to take in as Much as possible as Soon as possible. Looking at you, any Doubts I had about my Mission were erased. I hid Them well in the Presence of the Dauphin but They were Nothing to be thought of when I looked at you. I looked deeper and saw a wicked Tiredness that seemed to deaden My own Limbs. Shame, after Agincourt, and Resignation to your Fate of Defeat. I saw Fear. Desperation. I felt the Sorrow of the French People under English Occupation. My Heart bled for you and for them, and then It swelled with the Knowledge that God chose Me to be France's Liberator. Your Liberator, I suppose, since you are indeed France. I grew Resolute. I grew Proud, Steeled, and Hopeful myself. And I proclaimed my Message before the Dauphin with the true Passion that I felt. The Words, inspired by the Holy Spirit, poured from my Mouth with nary a Stutter nor false Utterance. I was empowered, and I could tell you were as well._

_But you said Nothing yesterday while I told both my Story, and God's Message, to the Dauphin. Therefore, I know not what you think._

_It matters not your Age. It matters not your Prowess in Battle. All that matters is that you hear me now, and heed what I say. I pray this Letter has made it into the Hands of the Person who calls himself "France." I pray that Person is like his Eyes: Reasonable, Strong-willed, Fearless, Perceptive, and Sensible overall, as well as Kind-hearted towards One who humbles herself before Prince and Country alike. And above all, I pray he is God-fearing. For I bear His will, and perhaps His ill-tidings should my Pleas be ignored, and His Message silenced._

_Take care what You do, for in Truth I am sent by God, and you put yourself in great Danger._

_The Words I say are true. God really does speak to me through His Angels, and They tell me, "Go. Go to the Dauphin. He will give you an Army, and you will fight. You will fight, you will lead, and you will win back your Homeland. You will lead the Dauphin to His Coronation." I believe these Words with all of my Heart, but I know the Dauphin needs convincing. Please. Please, help me. I know you believe me, and I know He trusts You. I saw him glance at You again and again while I spoke! You, and you alone can convince Him to help me._

_Place your Faith in me. More importantly, place your Faith in God, that I am indeed who I say that I am. Believe me, He has a plan for this Land._

_Yours,_

_Jeanne'_

The very first letter she sent him was stiff, awkward, uncomfortably formal, and absolutely, poetically gorgeous.

_"She's crazy!" Charles yelled, slamming his fist on the armrest of his throne. "Visions? Voices? 'God's Angels', speaking to her? She's mad, I say!"_

_"I do not think that she is!" France protested! "I truly think she's telling the truth - I feel it, in my heart! I've told you that when I feel something-"_

_"And what if she is not who she says she is, hm? I'm about to give her an ARMY! I'm about to entrust my entire Kingdom to her. I'm about to put my absolute trust in a GIRL! A girl who claims to have visions from the Lord, our God Himself! And if she fails, I'll have nothing. Nothing!"_

_France rolled his eyes. "And how is that any less than what you have now?" Charles was silent, so France took that as his cue to continue persuading him. "You've lost your legitimate claim to your own throne to an illegitimate, self-proclaimed Englishman! King Henry V's taken Brittany, Normandy, Champagne, Maine!" France counted them on his fingers as he listed them. "He's captured Rouen, Soissons, Reims - that bastard England has TAKEN PARIS! And never mind all the land in traitorous French hands!"_

_"She hears voices! She could be a sorceress! A witch, François!"_

_"I don't think so. All she wants is to see you crowned."_

_"So we trust her then, is that what you're saying?"_

_"I'm saying you have nothing more to lose. Just give her a chance."_

 

 

_'19 April, 1429_

_François,_

_You asked me at Dinner today the Circumstances surrounding my Visions. I did not answer, because I know that my Mission is still met with Anger and Disbelief. Making It seem even more Fantastical than It already is would have jeopardized Its Credibility, even with God behind It. So I tell you now. I tell you now Something I have never repeated to Anybody else, save for the Final Message that the Angels delivered me. And I tell you through a Letter, so I do not Misspeak or Stutter. Because I must not, I absolutely must not diminish what it is I tell you in any way._

_I have no Desire to tell another Soul - save you. Not even the Dauphin, because I sense he does not Believe me. But you, your Blue Eyes pierced me to my very Core when you asked me to Explain. You are France and I am French and I am fighting for Who you are and for Who I am and for What we are and every Time you look at me, for just a moment, everything I'm feeling inside of me makes sense. You looked Straight through me, with a Softness of Rolling Blue Waters that reminded me instantly of the Stream on my Father's Land. You looked at me with such Friendship and Amiability I have never sensed in Anyone in my whole life. And I felt Safe, and I felt Trusted. I felt such an Urge to tell you earlier that I had to bite my Tongue._

_I remember it so clearly. I was Ten Years old, and I was in My Father's Garden when the Visit happened. The day was Bright, Happy, Sunny, as one would Imagine a Day that an Angel would choose to visit._

_My Father owns Acre upon Acre of Land for the Cows and the other Animals, but there are Trees on his Land as well. And it is through the Trees where my Favorite Spot is. A Stream runs Parallel to the Tree Line about Thirty Feet in. And every day I would run along the Trail and Splash in the Stream and Feel the Water between my Toes. And on this particular day Everything seemed Sharper and Brighter than before. Like I was looking through a piece of Yellow Glass. And the Water felt especially Refreshing between my Toes. And I ran in the Stream, under the Canopy of Trees and Leaves, in the Beautiful Shade._

_Let me describe my Favorite Spot to you: The Stream, if followed, Leads me to a Clearing. And in the Clearing, there is every Wild Flower you could guess, of every Color. Pink and Purple and Red and Yellow and Green - Green for Miles. I Walked for a while, Running my hands along the Peonies, when, all of a sudden, Sound seemed to just go Away. My Ears started to Ring. And the Colors around me grew Brighter still, blinding me._

_I felt dizzy, and collapsed there in the Meadow._

_Things began bombarding my Senses: I saw Bells Ringing without any Sound. I saw myself wearing Armor and Lifting a Sword. I saw a Crown of Jewels being Placed on Someone's Head (I know now it was the Dauphin, but at the time I was at a loss)._

_When I awoke, kneeling over me was a figure. I could not see his Face, for the Light of the Sun was behind him. But I saw the Glow of Heaven Warming my Soul around him. And he had a Crown of Light around his head. And he had wings of pure, the most purest White you could imagine. The Archangel Michael. He laid the sword on me, and clasped my Hands around it, and everywhere he touched felt like Pins were sticking into me. Raw Power, I felt. God's power._

_There was a Flash, and everything changed. I heard the Thunder of Hooves. I saw a Throne made of Stone in my Meadow. I heard the Crackle of Fire and its Heat burned me and I had to turn away. I tried to get up and I tried to run but everywhere my Back turned lit the Meadow on Fire until I was surrounded. Before my Very Eyes my Meadow turned into a Town and Knights on Horseback rode Straight Past me, nearly nudging my Shoulders with their horses._

_I screamed and screamed, clutching the Sword to my Breast. And my screams mixed with the Townspeoples' Screams until I could no longer distinguish mine from theirs._

_And then Again, everything changed. I was lying in the Meadow again. And the Archangel Michael was next to me. And Saint Catherine was behind me, stroking my Hair and Saint Margaret had her Back to me and was picking Flowers. And I knew if I looked at any of Them They would vanish so I closed my Eyes, and all Three said in unison:_

_"Jeanne d'Arc, In the Name of God, Lead the French Army to Glory, and Crown the Dauphin."_

_And I made it to Chinon, through 500 Leagues of Enemy Burgundian Territory, to Deliver the Message. Because it Burns inside of me._

_I Care not what you Do with the Information, with the exception of keeping it between the Two of us. Just until I find the Strength to tell the Dauphin. Though, I suspect God will find the Strength and Force It upon me long before I am ready for it._

_You are such a good Friend to me, François. The best Friend I have at Court. I appreciate your Acceptance of me._

_Yours,_

_Jeanne_

 

 

_'5 May, 1429_

_François, mon amour,_

_The taking of the Fortress of Saint-Loup was marked with a Bitter Struggle. Once again, Dunois and his Men planned an Attack without me. I arrived late, and it took Hours, but by God's Will we were Victorious. We can now use the Fortress as a Base of Operations for Many Outgoing Campaigns, though if I am Honest, I Pray no more Bloodshed befalls the Loire's Banks. Before we proceed, I am going to send each English Garrison around Orléans a Message: to Abandon their Fortresses in Peace. But the English are Proud. I fear it is Hopeless._

_I am meeting Opposition on both sides of this Conflict. My own Captains do not trust me without you. They shake my Confidence in myself, and the whole Army's Confidence in me. And I feel I would have it without them! Sometimes even I cannot explain the Feelings I have and the Sensations I feel, and when I hear their Jeers while Stumbling over my Words, it is difficult to maintain Belief in myself. Though I will not Admit it, I am often Beset by Doubt. I often question myself, my Capacity for this Task God has chosen me for, and my Faith. It is often a Battle within myself: is my Faith strong enough to push back my Fear? Is my men's Faith in me strong enough for them to Follow me? My heart often Struggles to find Words riveting enough to Rally them. For they listen to me, but only because they have to, not because they Believe in me or Believe in my Mission from God._

_I will speak Plainly: You are the only person who makes me feel Ultimately and Perfectly Loved._

_And we've now known each other for several Months, so if it is not in Haste, I feel it is the proper Time for me to Admit that I Love you as well. Unconditionally, with a Deep-Rooted Love that sees beyond the Outer Surface. With a Love that Accepts you for exactly who and what you are, Regardless of your Flaws, your Shortcomings, or your Faults. The same Way that you Love me._

_I miss you deeply. And I Smile when I think of all the Time we've spent Together; Staying up for Hours and Talking, sharing our most Intimate Feelings but Never diminishing our Affection for One Another. And because Words sometimes are not enough to show Someone that you care about them, I hope that I often show you How much you mean to me. I hope you Know that I Love your Smile and the way you Tuck your Hair behind your Ears when you're Concentrating. Even if there isn't a Hair out of place. And while that only Encompasses two examples, let them Paint the Picture for you._

_Until I see you again._

_Affectionately Yours,_

_Jeanne_

 

 

_'François,_

_My English Captor has allowed me One Final Letter, since he is physically Writing it himself._

_I do not have a lot of Time, so I will be Succinct:_

_They are going to Execute me. My Crimes are Heresy, Witchcraft, and Wearing Men's Clothing, and my Punishment is a Purge of Flames. I know not when, and I know not why._

_You know of my Undying Affection for you. I need not Reiterate how much you mean to me._

_I may never get another Chance to say so: I Love you, I Love you, I Love you._

_Remember what I said about Death. I am not afraid._

_Do not Weep for me, for I go Willingly into God's open Arms._

_Yours Forever,_

_Jeanne_

 

 

He sold her.

Charles VII sold her to the English. For money, like she was some slave and not the Savior of his goddamn kingdom!

France still had the transcripts of her trial. The worst document he ever owned, lying in the same sacred space as her letters, the best documents he ever owned. He never read the transcripts. The only time he ever tried made him flashback so forcefully he woke up screaming.

Why did that have to happen, why?

France had to jam the fleshy part of his hand into his mouth and clamp down to muffle a sob.

France's fists clenched with emotion. His heart felt heavy in his chest, and he just wanted to break something. Break someone. He sniffled thickly and wiped at his nose, momentarily taken aback by the red streak on his finger. He let his hot, angry tears fall freely, but they weren't falling fast enough. He still felt rage, he still felt defeat, and the shaken cocktail of his emotions was ready to blow the cork.

He released a sob, feeling a little better that his tears fell and fell and fell, one right after the other, warm on his cheek.

He left her letter on his bed and sprinted over to his dresser, throwing his arm across it and spilling everything on it to the floor. Glass shattered, wood clattered, but it wasn't enough. He grabbed the whole thing and with a roar or rage flipped it onto its back.

Unbeknownst to him, Louis watched silently from his Drawing Room.

 

 

 _**June 16, 1788** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles, Servant's Quarters** _  
_**Linens** _

At any point in history, France was ready to say he was proud of his accomplishments:

773 - Battle of Pavia. Though France did not participate, Charlemagne and the Frankish forces defeated the Lombard King, Desiderius. Italy went under the Holy Roman Empire's control, since Charlemagne was both King of the West Franks and the Holy Roman Emperor.

1066 - Battle of Hastings. That time France did participate, at the center of command with Willian II, Duke of Normandy. And he and his Norman-Frankish army defeated the English. The Norman Conquest of England immediately followed (which was when France met Britain for the first time).

1372 - Battle of LaRochelle. French-Castilion fleet won control of the English Channel from Britain.

1429 - Jeanne's siege of Orléans.

1429 - Jeanne's victory at the Battle of Jargeau.

1429 - Jeanne's victory at Beaugency. All of them France fought alongside her. And that was only the 15th century.

1707 - Battle of Toulon. France and Spain's combined might crushed Austria and Britain. Et cetera.

And that was only military victories! It was a little harder to quantify surviving the bodily affects of political loss, military loss, social regression, and other nonsense. It was hard to describe just how proud he was of his social skills and physical appearances due to Louis VI.

Clearly, he wasn't exactly on top of the world right now, but the course of history had seen him at least eighty percent of the way there. And the view he used to have (of himself and his country) from the height was always satisfying. Women could only make that satisfaction more intense. Specifically Gwen.

Of course, if he wanted to go deeply into it, he could say that his hormones were raging. In the wake of preoccupation, love was pushed violently to the wayside. He had been depriving himself of the physical affection he always craved so passionately for so long that his body (and all of him, to be honest) was desperately trying to tell him that it was time to get back into the swing of things. He admit to himself more than once on his way down that he felt a little strange about it after spending so much time thinking about Jeanne. But then he remembered that he spent the first 100 years after her death wallowing in every sort of sadness imaginable before feeling confident enough in her projected peace with him moving on.

Of course, if he wanted to go deeper into it, he could assume that he was acting recklessly in an attempt to fill the black void in his life called "The Looming Threat of Revolution." Deep and cavernous.

But he didn't want to go deeply into it.

The door to one of the many linen storage rooms opened up and she stumbled out, juggling several rolled towels. Brown hair still in that same loose bun. With delicate, frizzy strands trailing out the sides and framing her face. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair. He wanted to smell it and stroke it. She looked so precious, he just wanted to squeeze her. A cute little forest sprite, he thought, and he couldn't keep the smile from his cheeks. White chemise, bare white stay laced overtop. Pushing her breasts up and squeezing them together, but he tried not to note them too heavily. Not yet, anyway . . . Beige skirt with a white apron to complete her bland servant's outfit. Wrapped up in her work and her thoughts, she didn't see France. She kicked the door closed behind her and turned down the hall away from him. "Gwen!" he yelled, chasing after her.

She turned and smiled stiffly at him, not really looking. Suddenly she perked up and did a double take, pausing in her stride. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped open before her eyebrows furrowed and her lips twisted into a frown. "What are _you_ doing down here?" she asked coldly. The warmth that he usually associated with green eyes was completely absent in her.

He'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't go down there hoping for another week of . . . distraction. He wanted to break out his cocky, seductive self and exercise his charm. But of course he couldn't tell her that. He had to change his tactics, and fast. He really didn't want to ruin her friendship in a bout of selfish insensitivity.

Maybe he could dodge her obvious anger. He smiled at her, pretending he didn't notice her tone. "I haven't seen you in ages and that's my greeting?"

"Hah!" she barked out a laugh. "What, do you think you deserve anything better? You've been back at Versailles for forever now! Why didn't you come see me?" she asked.

France closed the distance, with an easy, graceful, calculated minimum of movement. "I was busy," he said casually. He tenderly drew his finger down her cheek.

"Busy," Gwen huffed, slapping his hand away. "You couldn't call on me once? You couldn't stop down here even once?"

"I know, I'm sorry."

"Well while you were 'busy' I've been lonely. Thinking this whole time I did something to make you angry-"

"No, no, I promise it wasn't you!"

"Then why didn't you come see me?!"

France threw his arms up in defeat. "I don't know, I had to take care of Louis! I have responsibilities, _ma cherie_ , just like you do!"

"Your responsibilities didn't seem to bother you the first few times we met."

He scrambled for a retort, weakly settling on, " . . . That was different."

"Different my _ass_! I was just doing my work, cleaning the pans and making the bread, and then you came along like a pathetic dog begging for scraps!"

"A dog? A dog! Out of the two of us, I really don't think I'm acting like the bitch right now."

Bad move, France, _bad move_! He instantly regretted the comment. A heat wave rose in the back of his neck and rushed up in his cheeks. He felt his face redden as she blinked once at him. Blinked twice. Craned her neck and raised her eyebrows, mouth open. "O-okay, Gwen? I didn't-"

"Get out of here," she spat. She spun on her heels and stormed away. He messed up.

"No, I didn't mean it! I swear!"

"I don't care! Go away, I never want to see you again!"

Warning! Warning! "Wait!" He ran after her, spewing verbal remedies like a fountain. "Please, Gwen, I didn't mean it! I'm sorry. That was really rude of me, and horrible, and- . . . I shouldn't have said that. You have every right to be mad at me about everything I did to you! Just- . . . Just don't- . . . " She wasn't stopping. "Don't go!" Each step was a stab to his already aching heart. If she walked out he'd never forgive himself for what he said. He'd never forgive himself for ruining one of the only good things he had left. The thought of her cut away from his life forever made panic knot in his stomach. France dashed after her, and in his desperation, he grabbed a fistful of her skirt. Anything to stop her there. "Don't go."

She was tugged off-balance and dropped the pile of towels in her hands. Gwen whirled back around as far as her captured skirt would allow, and used her momentum to whip her whole arm around and slap him. Her palm and all five of her fingers connected with skin, so hard that stars burst in France's vision and he staggered back. His entire cheek ignited in flame, and he had to let go of her to rub out the five-star welt already reddening on his cheek. He froze, afraid that if he moved he'd fall over until his vision came back and the room stopped spinning and his eyes focused.

"I'm sorry-" she said tersely.

"No, no! I deserve it. I completely deserve it." He hissed in a breath through his teeth and exhaled slowly. "Ow. Please don't apologize." As soon as he trusted himself, he stood up straight and ignored the mild headache rooting itself to his temples in her wake. "You should meet my friend America. You'd give him a run for his money."

"Are you a jerk to him, too?" Her eyebrows were still furrowed, her jaw was still set. She was still just as mad as before she hit him. Geez. He had to clean his slate, and clean it fast.

"Gwen, I don't know how to tell you how sorry I am. I'm sorry I didn't come and see you. I know it looked like I was ignoring you, and that probably hurt a lot. Just know that it wasn't anything you did. It was my own laziness. I promise to come and see you more often than before, if that would make you happy. It certainly would make me happy." He waited tensely for her to scoff, scorn him, hit him again (well-deserved). "And I'm sorry for what I said. Please consider my most sincere apology." Like France used to do all the time under Louis XIV, he placed his hand over his heart and bowed.

"I'm not going to say it's okay, because it's not," Gwen muttered softly. He checked her face, and saw that her accusing eyes had softened. Her tense hand and wrist relaxed at her side. "You really hurt me."

"I know. I don't expect you to forgive me right away, if at all," he continued. "And I'll even leave if you want me to." He turned to go, but her hand on his arm stopped him.

"No, I don't want you to leave," she sighed. "I suppose that after all this time, I am somewhat happy to see you."

He turned back around, and she met his eyes so timidly she almost looked childish. He smiled down at her softly. "Oh - so am I! I really am happy to see you, too! Can I give you a hug, then?" he asked, opening his arms for her. He poured as much emotion in to his eyes as possible. Blinked in every sad regret he had until they welled up like tears; pooled every hope of her forgiveness in the blue of his irises. Willing her to see how desperate he was for her approval. He added a lop-sided grin, piling on one more plead for her to cling to. She closed the distance. He felt her arms snake around his torso, and he wrapped his around her shoulders, rubbing small circles over her shoulder blades until she pulled away. "Thank you." His heart felt lighter and happier. A huge weight was definitely lifted off his shoulders and mind.

Mission: Apologize.

Status: Complete.

She sighed, shoulders slumping, but unfortunately he couldn't tell if it was because she was relieved as well or frustrated. "Okay, so you're not mad at me anymore, right?" he asked playfully, hoping she'd laugh. To his alarm she pulled away.

"What? Yes!" she insisted, but the fire was gone from her tone. "A little." The corner of her mouth quirked up. She hadn't gotten any better at concealing her emotions.

He was in the clear. Time to work his magic the way the old France would have. Time to brush the cobwebs off his charm, his dashing smile, his charisma, his seductive body language. Like flipping a switch he perked up, ready to work his social talents and properly seduce a woman who wanted it. Read her, let her read him, act, and react. France smirked, lifting an eyebrow as a catch-all gesture: he'd turn it into a challenge if she was serious, and make her want to play along. He'd respond sensually if she was kidding, adding to it.

"Oh, you are?" he murmured quietly. He leaned in to her, as though about to share a secret. To his delight her eyes flared in interest. "Well, I can't have that! I'll have to make it up to you some more." Wink. He edged a bit closer to her, nearly pressing the whole right side of his body to hers. He was struck with an overwhelming urge to lean in and kiss her. On her wide nose, on her cheeks, her forehead, and her chiseled lips. Ah, but he'd do that and so much more later. For as much her pleasure as it would be his.

If there was ever a problem with loving oneself as much as France loved himself, that was it - he cared far too much about himself to ever consciously deprive himself of much. But he resisted now. He took her hand in his, massaging her knuckle with his thumb before lifting it to his lips, staring at her the whole time through his lashes.

Her own eyebrow quirked in response. "Oh, really? Are you sure you can?" She searched every inch of his face, scanning for any kind of flaw or imperfection (or insincerity, perhaps?) in his new persona. But he was a professional, and he truly wanted her in an adolescent lust kind of way. Eventually he would show her how paper-thin his bravado was, and eventually he would make himself vulnerable to her. And he would cup her pushed-up breasts and slide his hands up and down her sides, feeling the contour of her beautiful body from the lumpy flesh of her backside to the soft, pillow-like mid-section. But not yet.

That was his favorite spot on a woman. The curves. That one little spot where it was the most narrow before widening back out. He liked to fit his palms right in the little divot, he liked to feel how it folded his fingers back a little. Then he liked to splay his fingers and run them wherever they felt like going. And then he liked to nuzzle his face in there and trace the shape with his breath, then with his then his lips, then his teeth, then his tongue. And Gwen had a perfectly cuppable, nuzzle-worthy waist. He had to clench his fists to his sides, because he knew that if he touched her there, that would be it. There'd be no stopping him.

Geez, he was practically salivating. He hoped he hadn't been staring at her waist. "Is that a challenge? Because I am most definitely sure. I cannot rest knowing a woman as heart-stopping as you is wearing a frown by some fault of mine." He took a calming breath, mentally warned his hands, then when he felt safe, he brushed a stray hair away from her face and touched his lips to her forehead. Not invasive, but definitely an open door. "How about now?"

"Still kinda mad," she said quickly.

"Let me try this: You are absolutely, astoundingly gorgeous, and that is the least interesting thing about you," he said, bending his knees so he could peer into her face.

The corners of Gwen's lips twitched and another smile threatened her gimmick. "Please. You're so cheesy!" Gwen rolled her eyes and looked down to hide it, and France took the opportunity to snake his hand under her chin and slowly lift her face close to his.

When their foreheads touched and their noses nuzzled she closed her eyes. Her lips parted in anticipation, waiting for the moment that his would connect. But France paused just before their lips touched. It was just a tactic he picked up, to create anticipation, but in his own desperation for affection, it made his own heart ache. Sent a small electric charge through him. He desperately wanted to kiss her. To touch her. But first he could only look at her. He wanted to catch her in this vulnerable in-between. Just on the edge of opening up to each other. So close, he could feel her heart beat fast against his chest. He heard his own body's reply. He could feel her warm breath on his cheeks, and he inhaled slowly, filling his lungs with as much of her air as he could. He saw her eyes closed, her slightly open mouth. France stroked her cheek with his thumb and she opened her eyes.

"What?" she asked quietly. "Aren't you going to kiss me?"

He nodded. "I'm just looking at you first. I never forgot how lovely you are, Gwen. But seeing you now . . . I'm speechless." Her teeth slid over her bottom lip and clamped down.

She leaned in to him before he was ready. France didn't want to give too much too early - it could ruin her expectation. So France let their lips touch once, but barely. He wouldn't call it a real kiss. Their mouths just gently ghosted over each other, their noses and foreheads rubbed. She sighed, though it came out more like a whine, situated in the back of throat. Her lips were still smooth and soft, just as he remembered. He suddenly felt self-conscious about his chapped, probably sickly feeling lips.

She grinned, giggling sheepishly. His shoulders relaxed and he rubbed her cheek again. "I really missed you," he said.

"I missed you too." He'd done this a thousand times. He knew what to do. And yet, his heart still beat a little harder. Like he got a shot of adrenaline and was waiting for it to kick in. His senses sharpened the slightest bit. He noticed things he never noticed before - the slight downward tilt to her eyes, tiny flecks of green that jumped out against the rest of the rich color. He noticed her blinking more rapidly than before, long lashes closing over dilated pupils. The way her nostrils flared the tiniest bit as she breathed. The contour of her lips was just a little more pronounced than before. The corners looked sharper, they looked plumper. He longed to touch his lips to hers. To lick them and taste them and suck on them and let her know how beautiful they were to him.

He didn't even realize he licked his own lips.

He wanted to kiss her and please her and watch her like it. His desire was back, so instantaneously and so desperately that France felt a little dizzy.

But, one step at a time.

"I missed how beautiful you are. I missed your touch. I missed touching you, loving you. I missed talking to you and confiding in you over wine and ruffled sheets." He swallowed thickly and tried to control his breathing as he roved his gaze over her eyes, lips, and back again, showing her his intentions. Telling her how beautiful he thought she was. How he felt the natural draw to her lips. Creating a pull for her into him. As if she sensed it, her eyes twinkled, her heart fluttered against his chest and he knew he had her. She wanted him, of course she wanted him. Everyone in Versailles wanted him, he thought, in confidence more so than in truth.

He shifted his arms to her wrists and pulled her closer, kissing her more roughly, pressing his face to hers with more force, feeling her nose nudge into his cheekbone. She sucked a deep breath in through her nose, and each exhale grew more and more forceful than the other. The warmth of her lips and her breath on his cheek sent another energizing tingle through him, and as she splayed her hand on his chest and wrapped the other around his back, he enclosed her in a hug of his own. Feeling like he'd never get her close enough to him. That if he could, he would fold her inside of him. She freed another small, warm sigh from between her lips, and he grew a little sad. He was tempting her and teasing her - not very quickly, or intensely but all the more it built and built at just the speed he wanted. The familiar scent of cool mint on her breath invaded France's nostrils, and he wanted to taste it on his tongue. He wanted to taste her on his tongue.

He licked her bottom lip. She opened her mouth wider, and on the next kiss their lips closed around the others', interlocking. His heart started to race, keeping the pace as their kisses moved from tender to hungry. His breath came faster with hers. His hands, clammy with the start of a sweat, rubbing her back. Their heads tilted around each other, they rolled their tongues over each other, their kisses set and reset, wet smacks articulating each one until he grew dizzy. Just as well, because she eased up too. He opened his eyes and sucked on her bottom lip, gently nibbled it, made her pull away from him. Just like that, the kiss was over.

"I'll be really honest," he told her breathlessly, "I came down here for two reasons. The first was to apologize." He kept her wrapped in his arms and kissed under her jaw, delicately trailing one of his fingers down her neck. She shuddered violently and angled her head, exposing more for him to touch. He nestled his face into her neck, smiling as she giggled, and for each inch his finger traveled, he kissed. Gently biting, sucking on her skin, huffing warm breaths on her. Enjoying the goosebumps he noticed on each spot.

"And what was the other reason?"

He withdrew to wink coyly. "I think you know," he whispered in her ear. He thought about nibbling her earlobe, but held off. If she said yes he could save it for later. He waited a second, then asked her flat out, "Do you want to? I'm hard . . . " He had a little ways to go, but she probably felt it anyway when they were kissing up against each other. Come on, just a quickie . . .

She didn't reply. Instead, she grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the linen closet where she emerged from earlier. The butterflies started to flutter excitedly in his stomach, and he practically ran her over in his haste. She let him in first, and he assessed the space. It was big, almost as big as a drawing room. Plenty of space for what France had in mind. Plain (and probably thin) walls, with shelves of folded sheets and towels and washing cloths and even shirts and skirts. France turned back towards her to get started, but he caught her double checking the hallway behind her before closing the door.

"What?" he asked her. "Afraid to be seen with me?"

"Absolutely," she taunted. He noticed her eyes flick down his body momentarily before shooting back to his face, pupils shimmering with the anticipation of their excursion. They flared, her eyebrow lifted.

"Ha-ha," he mocked. He broke nearly every one of his own rules as he rushed her, pushing her shoulders against the door. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and hauled him bodily the rest of the way. Their lips collided before he could react; her hand wrapped around his back and her other stroked his chest near his collarbone. He closed his eyes and felt her skin flush and heat up as he ran his hands up and down her back. Massaging, rubbing - ah, no! He wanted to touch skin. And he wanted her to massage his skin. He blindly searched for the string of her stay while their lips were locked, their teeth were clicking together, their foreheads were pressing together. Their tongues were licking, biting, sucking on each other. Tasting skin. Breathing on each others' faces. Her hands scratched at his back, his shoulders, his chest. Never at rest for a moment. As soon as he found the knot in the laces he ripped at it, growling in frustration against her face as it caught once again.

He pulled his face away and rested his chin on her shoulder. "Un moment, mon ange." She stopped to catch her breath, wiping at her face and fanning herself. Gazing down her back, he pulled and tugged until the bow was undone. The damned thing was still laced, though. He just wanted it off. He pulled the laces out of the first two holes completely to loosen it, then ripped it as open as possible from top to bottom. "Lift up," he told her, tapping the underside of her arms. She disentangled herself from him and slid her arms from the straps, and he pulled the stay up as hard as he could. He actually lifted her on her toes, and he briefly panicked when the narrow bottom (that covered his favorite part) got stuck around her shoulders. "Uh-oh." Luckily, she shimmied a little, and it was finally off. Saved him some embarrassment. He tossed it carelessly to the floor and she waited while France shrugged his jacket off his shoulders. He kicked it away behind him.

"Good God, you're- . . . excited," she said, deciding awkwardly on the word.

Hell yes, he was. The only thing he could squeak out in reply was, "Mm-hm!"

While she wrenched his cravat away from his neck, he started on the buttons of his vest. She planted a quick peck to the tip of his nose, their eyes met - boy did she know how to tease him with those green eyes. They had a hunger in them, smoldering and melting all the ice he had in his blue. Then she worked on her own apron and skirt, sliding both down her legs at once. She only had one more layer before she was completely naked in front of him. He let her handle his shirt as well. At the sight of his bare chest, she bit her lip and her hands were on him again, sliding up and raking down, on his stomach, his chest, his collarbones. And everywhere her hands left trails of fire. Like tracing words in the air with a sparkler, everywhere she touched left a residual burn that sank beneath his skin, into his nerves.

Her excitement energized France, vitalized him. He crouched down and grabbed under her butt, hoisting her up. She quickly wrapped each of her skinny legs around his hips. "Don't drop me," she pleaded, staring hard at him.

"I won't." He wanted that sweet, smoldering look back. He kissed her throat, walking her back into the wall for support. Unfortunately, he accidentally slammed her there harder than he thought.

"Oww," she whimpered, throwing her hands back against the wall.

" _Mm_! - Sorry. . . You okay?" he asked between kisses.

" _Mm-hm_!"

She didn't seem to mind much, as her hands found their way back to his neck. She pulled his face into hers again, and France immediately jammed his tongue onto her mouth again, tracing in and around her bottom lip.

"I really - _mm_. I really - am sorry. For not coming to see you."

"S'okay."

He leaned all his weight under her hips and pressed her back tight against the wall to free one of his hands. He waited until he felt sure she wouldn't fall, then hiked up her shift. Slipped his hand under. Kissed her nose, her face, her eyebrows. Everywhere he could. France replaced his hand under her backside to make sure he still had her, then dug his fingers into the smooth, fleshy skin on the back of her thigh. He drew his fingers down to her knee, then firmly kneaded his knuckles back up. On each run he circled inward, moving closer and closer to her opening. When he felt the 'v' shape of her hips he followed the contour downwards, fingers brushing gently to the point of tickling her. She squirmed harshly underneath his hand but he persisted, as far as he could go before his own body leaning into hers obstructed his hand.

He very nearly growled in frustration as his desire surged. His hips practically bucked against her, even with his pants on. He just wanted to slip inside of her to satisfy himself. He wanted to feel her close around him and he wanted to feel the grinding and the sensation and the build up and he wanted to release - But not yet. He'd only hurt her, and that was cruel and selfish - extremely cruel. He had to excite her a little more, first. So he denied himself again, for the second time, burying the overwhelming urge to just . . . rrgh.

France's arms were starting to burn anyway. He slid her down the wall, but when she stood he sank lower, kneeling down low beneath her. He looked up at her, staring hungrily like an animal. God, his eyes probably looked crazy. Panting in anticipation like a cat staring down a mouse. He probably sounded asthmatic. Smirking like a bad boy. He met her eyes, long, hard, complete eye contact. He flared his eyes, he put a question in them: "Do you even know what I'm going to do?" France played with the hem of her shift for another second before throwing it up in the air and ducking under it. He dipped his head between her legs.

France started stroking her thighs again, practically raking his nails down, kneading his knuckles up like he did before. He nudged the top of his head into her tummy, and her legs tensed as his silky hair brushed on her. He slowly lifted his head, trailing his nose up and then his tongue, licking up her entire abdomen. He pulled away and reset, putting the tip of his nose straight into that "v" shape of her that was so tantalizing before. He traced downwards, and as his tongue lapped at her opening, he felt her clench in anticipation. Salty, like a buttery salty, coated the tip of his tongue, and he could have been mistaken but he swore there was the mint that was so often on her breath down there as well. He inhaled the scent, massaging her thighs. Wiggling, playing, just on the verge of entering but not.

Suddenly, he pressed his tongue up inside of her and rubbed back and forth on her clit. He held her legs to steady her, but she still jerked against the wall. "Mmm," she whimpered. Her legs went stiff, and he worked and shifted his tongue inside of her. Rolling, flicking, he clasped his lips around her and sucked. Every so often flicking his tongue back over her nub. Slipping his tongue inside and back out, playing with her inner walls.

He could feel her trembling. See her knees trembling.

While he worked, she clenched around him and he inhaled again, smelling that mint, tasting that salty flavor. When he felt her freeze above him, felt her entrance tighten with the rising climax, he stopped, retreating quickly. Her hips rolled up, "Don't stop," she breathed, but he had other plans. That was just to get her going. She was practically dripping. "Please, don't stop."

Still with her shift over his head, he stood straight up and pulled the loose garment over her head in one fluid motion.

If she looked at him in any way, he had no idea. Her body there for him was too gorgeous to pass up. Holy. Crap. He became hyper-aware of everything about her - he noticed her curves, and that EXACT mid-point at her waist where her hips rounded out and her torso began. The point that he loved so much. He himself touched those curves many times, but somehow, in the dim, yellowed candle-light and in her bare, creamy, beautiful skin, her figure was twice as contoured, her waist was twice as tiny and sharp, her hips twice as round this time. His blood electrified in his veins, and he actually had to clench his fists again to keep himself back. Not yet, France. Not yet. He followed the shape up to her breasts. Perfectly pear-shaped when not pushed up by the stay, and just as tantalizing. He already explored further up and further down.

God, women were so beautiful. What was it he told Spain? Kaleidoscopes. Multi-shaped, multi-colored. Each one fantastically different, each one a different display and with a different delight to offer. The tube itself could be plain, or it could be ornate. It could be easy to bring the colors into focus, or different to bring them to focus. Some with vibrant and blinding colors, other with subtle, softer colors. France could look over and over and over again, he could think he'd seen everything about a woman. But in her power she could have a single calculated word, a phrase, or a gesture that she decided to show that could change the whole thing. Some small, minuscule detail never seen before could mean all the difference. Some were good at manipulating his view, some were not. But either way, there was an indescribable, worldly beauty to each one that would always captivate him. This one was red, pink, lilac, arranged around a flower in the middle like a wheel. The spokes were sea-foam and lime green, and white connected each repetition of the pattern. Beautiful. Beautiful, breathtaking, brilliant.

She didn't have a chance to react before he lifted her up again. He pressed her there to the wall and held her, leaving his hands free to finally - finally! - caress her waist. Her hands clasped around his neck, leaving herself there for him, unimpeded. France nuzzled his face straight between her breasts, running his nose, then his tongue up and down her sternum. She tossed her head back and let loose a low moan that rumbled in her chest.

She must have ripped the ribbon out as she ran her hands through his hair, gently scraping her nails in blond waves. Mussing, tousling, tangling her fingers. He released his content sigh against her face as her hands brushed a certain hair - one that he normally kept so carefully in line with the rest of his loose curls it was completely indistinguishable from the others. A rush, a tiny pressure, not uncomfortable at all, just pressure, shot down him and built up in his whole body - short-circuiting his brain, fluttering in his stomach, lighting his thighs, hips, and groin before fizzling out into nothing as her hands kept running, circling. Never long enough to fully ignite him. Whether she knew it or not she was teasing him, the way no man should be teased. To return the favor he inched his tongue along the contour of her flushed, plump breast, tasting the saltiness of her sweat, circling in around her nipple. Taking her in his mouth, he felt it draw tight in his mouth as he flicked it with his tongue, kissed it, sucked it, ever-so-gently bit it-

"Francis- _mmh_ ," she grunted.

He sighed against her chest. "I love it when you call my name-!" Her hand caught that strand again, and his words were swallowed by a moan that he couldn't bite back. He clenched against her as the familiar pressure rocketed through his length, staying there the second time. His fingers dug into her behind, his hips rolled, a tingling warmth went through his whole body. He could feel his arousal bulging against his trousers, and he sucked in a shaky breath.

"Your . . . hair?" she questioned, struggling to speak between breaths.

" _Mm-hm_!" he yelled. She began combing through again, and he cried out when she found it. "Y-yeah! Right there. Hold on. Untie my pants." His head swum, he felt dizzy, dazed, intoxicated by her. Heart pounding. Blood rushing. He was sweating, their slick skin kept chafing against each others. With their bodies so close, they shared the terrible warmth rising of their bodies, radiating. Sizzling with heat. Smoldering, blazing heat. It felt like six layers in the summer, pulsing inside of each of him until France felt his core was melting.

She started to slide down the wall again while she undid the drawstring, and he needed a small break anyway. He let her down to the floor again and shook out his arms, but as soon as his pants were off and he sprung free he pushed her back against the wall again and lifted one of her legs up around his hips. He tried to throw her other leg up as well but she struggled against him to keep it down. Probably to ground herself. France let her do whatever she wanted. Just as long as she was happy when he finally sealed the deal. He hefted her up, leaving her other foot on the ground for her to support herself. He wasn't sure if she could. Her whole leg was quaking.

He thought about holding out just a little bit longer and teasing her some more, but France's willpower crumbled pathetically. Too aroused to play anymore, he crouched down. He pushed in to her, feeling her hot wetness cling to him. The warmth of her walls clamping and closing around him, sliding along him, pressing in on him, he relished in it. Her breath hitched. She gasped, arching her back, and her hands found their way back to his hair, grabbing fistfuls, roving around the general area where he said he liked it before. "Mmmm," he grumbled. He thrust once, tentatively. He thrust again, taking the back of her thigh in his hand. Her face contorted in pleasure, he loved watching her eyes roll back as the waves of ecstasy rolled over her. She re-positioned her leg around him and he took that as permission to go a little faster.

Every nerve ending was alight, a gentle pulse started to beat in his shaft, every gentle sensation was world-shattering. With each stroke inside of her the pressure rose, rose and rose higher, the feeling intensified, until he was trembling as well. France used the pulsing to set his rhythm. Hips pounding into hers, simultaneously moving her up and down side to side while driving her against the wall behind them. Sweat started to bead everywhere he was aware of - his forehead, his neck, his chest, his stomach, his thighs, dripping on both of them. He shut his eyes, his chest tightened and their pants filled the room around them.

Each moan he elicited from her was enjoyable than the last. Such beautiful music, that even Austria would be proud. Maybe even jealous, that the music of their love would rival his and rival Bach's and rival Mozart's. The grunts of France's exertion added the bass voice as well.

His eyes started to lose focus, and he knew he was coming close. He couldn't quite think straight. The room seemed to go dark around him and his shallow breathing grew even shallow. Until he got a tap on his chest.

"H-hey," she said. "Hey, Francis?"

"Oh no," he thought selfishly. She wouldn't cut it off, would she? Why? No way, he needed this - he needed her! Wasn't he doing a good job? He kept up; he was getting closer and closer and it was feeling so good. If he stopped now . . .

No, he couldn't do that to her. He had to stop. He paused inside of her. "What, what?"

"I . . . I think I'm losing circulation." She slid her leg down his whole leg until it was on the floor. She sighed in relief. "Can we switch?" She lifted her other leg and planted it in the same spot on his other hip. When she was ready, only at her not did he continue at exactly the same pace he was at before. He didn't even have to change rhythm.

Before long his upper body grew cold. All the heat built up in his abdomen, slithering to his groin. His legs trembled, he had to pause, the THROBBING pressure that was even bucking and rolling his hips for him, the warmth built-built-built, like someone was squeezing him over and over. He managed to hold off on his own satisfaction by dedicating his thoughts to her. He'd buy her something. Anything. That was what men did for women they liked, so he'd heard. A château. He'd buy her her own château. With a marble courtyard and a fountain. Diamond jewelry. Emeralds and sapphires and gilded carriages and dresses and-

Only few more pumps before sweet, pleasant relief, like releasing a coiled spring. The sound spun away from his ears, his vision blurred, France's head swam. His warm spray erupted inside of her, over and over with each throb. He bucked his hips harder into her, and his cry overpowered hers while she retreated to erotic whimpers. Gradually, each pulse grew less and less intense until they stopped completely.

France relaxed, releasing a contented sigh.

"Are you done?" she asked him.

" . . . Yeah," he said, retreating off of her.

"Okay," she said. She gently slid down the wall and fanned her face desperately, still panting. France collapsed back as well. The cold Versailles floor felt nice on his hot body, and he sprawled out.

"That was great," he said absently. His whole body still felt tingly. They sat in warm, comfortable silence, recovering from their exertion. When he finally felt alright, he crawled to his feet and snagged a couple clean towels off the shelves, taking it to his groin to clean up. "Here," he tossed her the towel, and in a touch of odd irony that he didn't understand, she turned away to dry herself. He grabbed his pants and started looking for his socks before he realized that she never took them off. They were still tied around his thighs with the garters. Whoops.

"Merci, ma cherie," he said, smiling at her. Smiling fully, because he meant it. That was probably the best thing to happen to him for a while, even if it was only twenty or so minutes of happiness. He got it all: mindless screwing - literally mindless, to his delight; pleasuring a woman; seeing a woman in pleasure; release; satisfaction. Everything.

"Francis, I think this is the last time I'm going to see you."

And it all crashed in a second.

" . . . What?" Did he hear her right?

"I said I think this is the last time I'm going to see you."

"B-but . . . we just- . . . but why?" he sputtered. His heart sank and crashed into his abdomen. All the tingling was gone. "Didn't you . . . what?"

She started to put her clothes on. Though he supposed part of it was so she didn't have to look at him. "You looked like you needed it today. But that's not the girl I want to be, is your stress reliever when things go a little wrong for you."

"Y-you're not . . . you're not just a stress reliever!"

"Well, what am I, then?" she asked, throwing the shift over. The first step in covering that body. "I thought you loved me the first few times, but you don't. And that's okay!" she quickly added. "That's fine! I'm not hurt or upset. But I'm also not stupid, Monsieur. You didn't come see me when you were busy, and then I could see it in your face when you got here. You were desperate for a distraction. And while I was happy to oblige this time, I don't want it to continue."

"I . . . Gwen . . . " If he admit it was true, he'd accept that he used her to be selfish, and he didn't want to do that. He didn't want to just accept that the last (unfortunately distant) constant was about to walk out of his life. But he couldn't lie to her. "I . . . I can't stop you." The words tasted acidic on his tongue. "While I don't like your decision, I respect it."

"Thank you." It lacked any affection whatsoever. She had gathered up his clothes, and as she handed them to him, she kissed his cheek. His limbs felt dead. His soul felt dead. He couldn't react. This conversation was dead, how could she seem so calm? She didn't realize that she meant so much more to him than a distraction. She didn't realize that she was his emotional savior right then.

She didn't realize that she was the last person he had before he was completely and totally alone.

He had to watch her walk out.

That night he had a nightmare. Jeanne standing on the fire, and her skin melting off. And he was standing next to her, clutching at her blistered skin, trying to place it back where it belonged and literally hold her together so she could jump off, but she simply stood there and let the flames lick at both of them until he woke up screaming with Buonnaroti and Louis standing over him.

 

 

 _**July 7, 1788** _  
_**Les Jardins de Versailles** _  
_**Plaine St. Antoine** _

"I don't have much time, so I'll make this brief: you're starting to scare me, France."

"Is that so?" he asked, flopping back on the lush grass.

"You haven't slept in days - don't lie to me!" Louis yelled when France shook his head.

"Nope! Nope, nope! I haven't!"

"You're so tired you're practically hallucinating! You wake up every night screaming! And I know it affects you during the day! And I am concerned for you - Buonnaroti as well! You are showing symptoms of-"

"Of what? A crumbling infrastructure and an empty treasury?"

" . . . Do not turn this into what it is not. This is about you. I insist that for the next few days you stay in bed and rest!"

"I am resting. Just on the grass today."

"You're worrying me-"

"Could've used it a long time ago, but thanks for the sentiment."

" _Rrgh_!" Louis growled. He wheeled his horse around and galloped away.

 

 

 _**July 13, 1788** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles** _  
_**Galerie des Glaces** _

When he woke up, France ignored the quiet sound of raindrops hitting the windows.

When Monsieur Buonnaroti cleaned his wound, he ignored the sharp pings of cork-sized hail on the walls, resonating through the halls of the entire palace.

When he dressed and ate lunch by himself (though 'eating' may have been a strong word), he ignored the growing size of the hail and the crescendo of the sound, the lightning, flashing in the sky. Beautiful in any other circumstance but this one. His heart started to ache, and he knew the storm hit Paris as well.

By the time he decided to take a stroll around Versailles to pass the evening, he could no longer ignore it. The hailstorm threw apple-sized chunks of ice down onto the Palace like frozen Armageddon. Lightning split the sky, directly over Versailles and miles away in Paris, and the thunder that immediately followed shook the floors and the walls, and made all the glass and fine china and statues and accessories of Versailles tremble. He felt short of breath, his heart throbbed and pain radiated through his whole chest and stomach.

From the sounds and force of it, the windows could crack any minute, and France was waiting, waiting, waiting for when they did. If there weren't windows in the Palace that hadn't cracked already. This was bad, this was really really bad. If the rain kept up the Seine would flood Paris and everywhere around it and then if the Seine flooded the crops would be shot and then if the crops were ruined there would be no food to eat and if there was no food to eat then the people would starve and then if the people starved then the people would get angry and if people got angry they would start the attacks again and then if they started the attacks again-

The Hall of Mirrors looked so strange without any of the chandeliers lit. It looked abandoned and dejected and sad, like all the happiness of the dancing candlelight had been sucked out of it. The second he crossed the threshold, he felt out of place. He felt like there were people in there, ghosts, and he interrupted their peace and they were staring at him. With malice. His stomach rolled inside of him, he felt like he had to get out. But while France passed through, the lightning strobed again. The light flashed, outlining a person, standing at one of the many windows in the middle of the Hall. France could tell the silhouette was Louis, even in the gloom and with the light behind him. Staring out the window at the mess outside. The thunder rumbled directly under their feet.

He had his hands firmly clasped behind his back, shoulders and back ram-rod straight, but to France it looked completely ironic. Like in his forced resolve his outline looked more vulnerable than France had ever seen him. Standing resolute against the storm? The one thing he couldn't control? France realized he was glad he couldn't see the man's face. It would have ruined any illusion of pride Louis had.

The idea entered France's head that he should go to him and . . . do something. Speak to him? Just stay there with him? He wasn't entirely opposed to either of those ideas, which was a pleasant relief to his exhausted emotions. Perpetual anger took more out of a Nation than anybody realized. Plus, the very idea dulled the storm's persistent ache in his chest. National impulse, saying, 'Go to Louis.'

Louis probably didn't hear France's footsteps over the tenacious hail slamming against the glass, but even when France drew level, Louis barely twitched. He did not even blink. He stared, unflinching despite the extremely loud hail heading right for the glass and the flashes of lightning. France watched out of the corner of his eye, waiting for Louis to make the move - whatever he was comfortable with. Talking, standing, whatever, he'd let Louis decide. He followed Louis' gaze to the Latona fountain, and both stood for France didn't know how long, watching in awe at the hail making huge splashes in the fountain's basin.

"I've never seen hail like that in my life," Louis said solemnly. "This is the work of an angry God. Heaven itself is out of balance."

France sat down on the cold floor and hugged his knees to his chest. "Hm. God," he muttered. Maybe. "People are being killed," France told him. "The hail is big enough and falling hard enough to kill people. Who do you think He is punishing?"

The lightning flared, and France couldn't see a single outline of a cloud. The whole sky was one big black mass, as far as the eye could see.

Louis waited for the Palace to stop shaking before sighing, "Me."

France couldn't think of anything soft enough to comfort him. But his heart felt heavy and he knew he wanted to. "Do you at all think about the future?" he asked, changing the subject. The release of those few words lifted some of the weight, and he wanted to get them out. "Of the France you will leave behind for the Dauphin, and the France that he will leave behind for his children?" France waited to see if Louis would consider it rhetorical or not. He himself wasn't sure what it was. He continued, "Because I do. I say that I don't, but . . . Charlemagne always used to tell me that one of the purposes of a King was to leave a strong foundation so the next generation could build off of it with the utmost of ease. And I shudder now to think-" He stopped. Anything more that he said would only sound like he was blaming Louis, and though he should be blamed, it wasn't what he needed at the moment.

"There's nothing you're going to say that I haven't already thought of."

He guessed that was Louis' permission. "I shudder to think of what I am going to be when you're through. And what Louis XVII will inherit. I'm afraid I won't be me anymore. Do you even care?"

"Of course I care. And I am trying, don't you see? Actually trying. It's just not working. When I was young and a fledgling King, right after my grandfather died, I couldn't even have said that much. I was underprepared and had no idea how to even begin to run a country. I just sat back and waited for you and for others to solve my problems for me, since I didn't know where to begin. I really don't think that I would have done anything back then even if I knew, in all honesty. I've really screwed you over, haven't I?"

"Yes," France said.

Louis nodded, just nodded. So France couldn't tell if his unapologetic affirmation hurt him. It shouldn't have, not if Louis was being this honest about his feelings. "I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I am doomed to be remembered as the worst monarch in your history." France understood what he was feeling, but couldn't relate. He couldn't imagine being a human with only sixty or so years to leave behind a legacy. And working so hard only to leave behind a horrible one. Everyone wanted to be remembered, and poor Louis was feeling the despair of being remembered with scorn and hatred.

"History will make it up to you," France mumbled before he realized it.

"What?" Louis asked, looking down at him. It was the first time he looked at France since the start of their conversation. "What did you say?" France looked up at him and saw that his eyes were wide with surprise.

Should he have told Louis? Maybe, maybe not. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and in hindsight France would never say he regretted it, per se. But he would always feel like he betrayed a secret part of his heart that no one was allowed to know besides him and Jeanne. " . . . I believe that when someone gets . . . " What were the right words? " . . . Toyed with by history, like, um . . . Jeanne d'Arc, or, um . . . Hans Hermann von Katte from Prussia . . . people like that. People who can't get a break, know what I mean? I believe that they earn a second chance to live a long, happy, and fulfilling life. Does that make sense?"

"Reincarnation, you mean?"

"Sure. Like maybe Jeanne will be reborn as an innkeeper, a well-respected noblewoman. And she'll find a husband and get married and have children and live a life of love for those children-"

"I'm not sure if I believe it. But do you find me worthy of such a thing?" Louis said, a little too quickly.

" . . . It's not up to me."

 

 

 _**August 14, 1788** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments** _  
_**Library of Louis XVI** _

France missed the majority of the conversation, but from what he heard, he was glad he did.

"Alright," Louis affirmed, nodding quickly. "Submit a suspension on the loan payments, and release a statement to the press. The Estates-General will convene on the 5th of May, 1789."

"Oui, Sire," Brienne said.

"France!" Louis greeted him amiably. France was almost whisked away, back to the Opera House. With a vision of Louis leaning over the balcony to point and laugh at him. He had to forcibly shove the image away, locking it tight in his mental chest.

"Bonjour," France said. He bowed low to Louis, then to Brienne.

"You look . . . tired," Louis said.

France only nodded. As if he didn't see the dark circles that morning.

"Thank you, Monsieur Brienne. That is all. I must speak to France alone for a moment."

"Shall I wait?"

"No, merci. Shut the door on your way out."

He bowed to Louis and made strong eye contact with France, raising an eyebrow. France only shrugged. 'I don't know what he wants.' Brienne's face softened, and they waited for the soft snick of the door to begin.

"What is this, Louis?"

Louis stood behind his desk. "There is no easy way to say this," he began. He kept his eyes down, idly tapping the tips of his fingers against the corner of his desk. "But Brienne has run his course," he said suddenly, looking up at France. "He and I have done all that we could, but it is time that we bring in someone new once again. I am forcing him to resign."

" . . . Oh. Well, yes, that is a shame," he said awkwardly.

"Marie insisted I keep him - it seems she has a favor for Monsieur Brienne, but unfortunately, he has brought us to another stalemate."

He wanted to be polite, but of course his curiosity bested him. "Who are you bringing in to replace him?"

"Probably Jacques Necker. But I'm not sure!" he quickly added, as if France would judge him.

"Hm!"

"Are you . . . pleased with my selection?"

"I guess," France shrugged. "I mean," he chuckled darkly. "Can't possibly get any worse, right? Ha-ha-ha."

 

 

_'Monsieur Étienne Charles de Loménie de Brienne,_

_Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for a year of loyal servitude to Louis XVI, to the Kingdom of France, and to me. As thanks, please accept a gift of my appreciation: 5,000 livres from my personal savings._

_I wish you all the happiness in the world, and all the success you could possibly desire._

_François Bonnefoy; Le Royaume de France_

 

 

_'Louis,_

_I realize that Brienne's resignation will leave France in an even more precarious position than we are already in until you find his replacement. To that end, I have decided to step back into my role as Royal Advisor - temporarily. For the time being, it will be as before. I will try my best to help you however I can, with whatever may be brought to the table. This includes legislative and financial reforms. You may decline my offer if you feel it is right that you should do so._

_HOWEVER, if you accept my offer let me be perfectly clear on two things:_

_I will not be your doormat._

_I am no longer able to be your failsafe, either._

_Things are bad now, Louis, very bad, do you understand? I don't know what you expect, but I will not be able to reappear and suddenly make things right anymore. Keep your expectations and your hopes low. The situation is dire, and much of what we do will not help tremendously. We may ease the suffering of this country, but to completely save it from whatever crisis we are careening towards would require changes too quick and too vast for functionality._

_On another note, I now write to you this evening of the 15th to forewarn you of my absence on the night of the 25th._

_The newspapers in and around Paris officially confirmed the rumors: Ten days from now, the streets of Paris will be alight with a party in Brienne's wake, celebrating his resignation. You have made me more than aware of your objections to the very idea of it, but I am writing this letter to let you know that while I acknowledge your protests, I am still going._

_Do not interfere. This is a National matter, worthy of my full presence and attention. Should there be an emergency, National obligation will force me back to Versailles, as quickly as possible. Otherwise, do not expect me at Versailles for the entirety of the evening, or the morning of the 26th._

_Yours,_

_Le Royaume de France_  
_François Bonnefoy_

_**August 25, 1788** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles, King's Private Apartments** _  
_**Dining Room** _

_France,_

_Have lunch with me today at 13:00. We need to talk._

_Louis_

 

Party night!

For the first time in a while France was alert, energetic, and had a certain mental clarity he lacked for a long time. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would ruin his good mood. Not even this talk with Louis. Louis would not deter him.

France dressed in his best, knowing perfectly well that he was going to change into something more bland for the party. He chose a silky magenta jacket with extremely wide, folded back cuffs. The embroidered stitch trimmed the front, pockets, and cuffs with soft yellow roses and gentle pink lilies on green stems. Cream vest underneath, which sported a minuscule version of the design, and every button had a flower on it. He kept the matching magenta pants and white socks, and made a bow out of his lace cravat. But rather than tie all his hair back, he pulled the very front and the very back into the ribbon, and left a few pieces underneath down in the front. The waves curled around and framed his narrow face well, giving his hair a smooth, cascading look.

It's party night. It's party night!

His heart felt like it could burst, his soul just wanted to leap! And he wanted to dance. He threw the doors to his room open and sprinted clear through the room over - one of Louis' council chambers. Conveniently located next to Louis' bedchamber, and in a conveniently wrong direction than the dining room. "It's party niiiiiiiiiiiight!" he yelled as he ran the length of the Hall of Mirrors. He wanted it to echo in the whole palace. He imagined his voice wrapping back around and enveloping him, further smothering him in his own joy. He paused at the very end of the hall, at the very edge of the Queen's Apartments. Panting, excited, happy for the release.

Lunch time.

Nothing would ruin this for him.

Nothing.

He stood a while in the Hall to catch his breath. As soon as he felt calm enough, he confidently strutted back down the Hall, back through his bedroom and a couple other rooms. The doors to the dining hall opened for him, someone said, "Francis Bonnefoy, Your Majesty."

Let lunch commence.

It began cordially enough, which was good. France had no intention of making it verbally violent. Oh, there were only two chairs. "No courtiers, Louis?" France asked. He also noticed that Louis had the chair set on the lengths of the table. He wouldn't be seated in any higher position than France.

"Not today. Since Marie has escaped to her trainon this week, I figured the two of us could take this time to talk."

Upon his approach to the table, a butler pulled the chair out for him, and pushed it in as he sat. A wine glass was in front of France before he even situated himself at the table. "Merci," he said, smiling to the man.

"You're in a good mood," Louis said, watching him closely. "It's nice to see, since I know you're in pain. And not sleeping hardly at all."

"Does Monsieur Buonnaroti tell you all my dirty little secrets?" he asked.

"Not all of them," he assured France, smiling softly. His eyes twinkled. "Only the particularly dirty ones, like your sleeping habits."

France chuckled in reply, then waited for the butlers to make his plate. They piled on beef, duck, boiled potatoes, filled his bowl with soup - he stopped them there. He wanted to save room for the party in Paris. There would be plenty of free food - all kinds of meats roasting, the tantalizing aroma permeating the streets, the bland Parisian stews cooking over a fire. Free alcohol, raising glasses, clinking, the sounds almost as sweet on the ears as the music. Singing, guitars, dancing in the streets, celebrating, fireworks, tavern-crawling. He could practically hear the booms overhead and feel the ash falling in his eyes and burning them.

His heart swelled in excitement at the thought of it. "I'm in a good mood," he said, "because Paris is in a good mood. They are throwing a city-wide party in Brienne's wake."

"I know," Louis near whispered. "The one that I said I don't want you going to."

So Louis was going to make it dangerous, huh? "I hear there are going to be fireworks! You're not going to stop me, are you?" France asked smugly. Go on and try it. Louis maintained hard eye contact for another moment before looking away.

"No. I'm not. Though I am strongly against it."

France tried to think of all the possible reasons why Louis would disapprove - perhaps he was afraid France would leave and never come back? Just like he thought when France absconded to Paris every night. If France left, Louis would officially be on his own until they found a replacement. If they found a replacement.

Or maybe, he was jealous of France's newfound independence. France could come and go as he pleased without the weight of responsibility on his shoulders anymore. He was confident enough in himself to make a decision, and he could act upon it.

Maybe he was afraid of the symbolism of his Nation going to celebrate the sacking of a most trusted advisor. On a more surface level, maybe Louis was jealous of France having fun when he was clearly sinking into some sort of emotional funk.

"And it's not just me! Monsieur Buonnaroti does not think you should go, either. He wishes you would stay in, and try to get some rest." Louis paused, shaking his head. "I did not know Brienne was so hated."

France shrugged. "I guess. You never liked him yourself, right? What is it you called him? Pompous?"

"I used to think so. My opinion has since changed, but only slightly. I find him . . . found him . . . to be quite dull in personality."

"I'm going to that party," France enunciated slowly.

"Let's change the subject," Louis said. "I don't want to discuss it any longer."

Fine by him. "What of my offer to help? Just until you find Brienne's replacement?" France quickly remedied. He didn't want Louis getting any false ideas that he'd be back for good. "Do you accept?"

"I do," Louis said quickly. "Thank you very much for the offer." He made direct eye contact with France and nodded his sincerity, and France smiled in reply.

"Of course."

"Contrary to what you think, I really do care about you, and about this country, France."

France didn't want to grace that statement with a reply. Of course Louis cared. It wasn't Louis' capacity for concern that upset France on the daily. It was the fact that Louis was ill-equipped, and knew he was ill-equipped. And still he entertained the notion that he didn't have to listen to who was more equipped, only whoever said their opinion the loudest.

France grabbed his glass and took an experimental whiff of the aroma. He smelled Château Lafite, and . . . something odd. Something he didn't recognize. He smelled it again, deeper, ignoring the clingy alcohol scent and pushing straight through to the flavor. The grapes were from Château Lafite - Louis' favorite. A good-quality, fruity scent reached him first, and he thought maybe he imagined whatever it was he smelled the first time.

He committed a social faux pas and stuck his nose right to the edge of the glass, sucking in an audible breath of it. Soft and sweet, it smelled like a full-bodied wine, which was characteristic of Château Lafite. Probably velvety. Perhaps a little bit faded and shallow, but France could deal-

Wait. There it was again! Lingering in the aroma, an off-kilter and extremely bitter smell, or an extra bite that shouldn't be there.

"Is the wine spoiled?" France asked. He glanced up and saw Louis closely watching him. Fork paused in the air next to his open mouth. "What?" France asked.

"Nothing," he answered quickly. "I was just about to ask you if you noticed something off about it. You've been smelling it for a good minute."

"It's . . . I don't know. It smells how the vintage should smell. It's fruity, full-bodied and everything. But I keep smelling, sort of, an extra sourness. Like a dry kick to the end."

"I asked for an acidic wine tonight. If it's dry-"

"No, no, no. Château Lafite makes soft red wines."

"I don't believe it is Château-"

"It is!" France insisted incredulously. "I can't believe you just said that! You really don't trust my nose?"

"It's not that! Just taste it! I assure you, it's acidic." Louis grabbed his own glass and swirled the wine around a few times before gulping down most of it. His face puckered and he bared his teeth against the bitterness. "Try it."

Something worming in the pit of his stomach warned him that this was amiss. That there was something wrong with this picture. He prided himself in wine tasting. It was his national pride, and his National skill. He knew, he knew he was smelling Château Lafite. He knew his nose was correct. He knew their red wines were soft. He knew white wines were the dry wines, and they don't come from Château Lafite.

"No. Something doesn't feel right," he said. He put his glass back down and gestured a servant along the wall over to the table. "New bottle, please," he said. "Ah! Actually, new vintage. Make it a Bordeaux Claret. I think it'd pair better with this meal." Plus, Clarets were so named for how clear they were, to the point where the drinker could see the other side of its container through it. If the Claret was blemished, he would know. The servant took his glass from him and bowed away from the table before leaving.

"What is wrong with you, huh?" Louis asked. "Why are you being difficult?"

"Difficult? I'm not being difficult! Excuse me for being cautious that the grapes were bad!"

"That wine was perfectly fine! That's not caution, that's paranoia! I told you something's not right with you lately-"

"No. It didn't feel right. Something didn't feel right."

"You mean in a National way?"

No, he didn't feel . . . this wasn't as deep-rooted as a National problem. National problems almost always hurt. His back could attest to it. And his exhausted, aching body could scream out the woes of his situation. This wasn't the same. His stomach churned inside of him, as if to confirm for him that he made the right choice, but when describing it to Louis he just felt silly. He wasn't sure why.

"I . . . I don't know," he finally answered, looking with false interest at his plate. While waiting for his new glass he threw his elbow on the table and rested his cheek on his fist.

"France," Louis said matter-of-factly. He stabbed a piece of beef far more violently than he had to. "You're unhinged. Probably very, very tired. Your behavior lately has been concerning me, and I've been keeping tabs on you, you know. I know you haven't slept a wink in five days, now. Days on end. You're seeing things, you're hearing things. Pretty soon the dark circles will be ingrained in your skin. Am I wrong?"

Of course he wasn't wrong. But he asked it like a rhetorical question, so France declined to answer.

Throwing the piece in his mouth, Louis gurgled thickly, "The change in financial advisors may be taking its toll on you as well, even more than you think. So I have a hard time believing you're on edge over wine."

France almost laughed. Almost. He choked it down to a mild snort and grinned up at Louis in a way that he knew was perfectly smug. "Don't pretend you know me, Louis XVI."

At the mention of his full title, Louis' chewing faltered. It started back up again in an instant, but slowly, manually. "I know what you're doing," Louis said into his plate. "I know that you're going to try and intimidate me with that look you give me."

"What look?" he asked. Just incase Louis could see, France quirked an eyebrow up, blinking methodically.

"You know. That look, you make your eyes look . . . very deep, and you . . . catch me in them. And then you look at me like you're looking straight through me. And you know everything about me and I feel very . . . small. I don't know how to explain it." The doors opened behind France and saved him the trouble. Louis purposefully leaned to the side to stare past him. "There's your wine."

The servant carried a tray over with a pitcher and glass on it. France watched as he filled the glass, then offered the tray to him. "I tell you what," France said, grabbing it. "Merci," he murmured. "That is the most articulate explanation of it I've ever heard. From any of my monarchs." He inspected the wine, holding it up to the light to ensure its clarity. He inhaled it and it smelled proper, healthy. It was bitter as well, but a proper bitter for a claret. His stomach still felt a little odd, but he wasn't getting the same feeling as before.

"Is it to your satisfaction?" Louis asked.

"It is," France decided. He took a large gulp and affirmed, "Much better." Admittedly, a little flat as well. Geez, what was it with the wines today? But he figured if he made a fuss a second time he was being difficult. And France would rather drink a mildly discomforting wine rather than let Louis grill him on a personality flaw.

"Much better in the taste, or the pairing?" Louis asked, poking fun, and France could hear the smile in his voice.

"Both," he shot back. "Lord knows I can't trust you to make a quality choice." France laughed at his own quip, while Louis' smile grew and he giggled heartily, nodding his admittance. Before France's glass was even close to empty, Louis called for a refill. They poured more Château Lafite into Louis' glass and more of the Claret into France's, and Louis lifted his off the table.

"May I propose a toast?"

"To?"

" . . . To getting you back. And . . . " he sighed, but said amiably, "to a great party tonight."

France couldn't keep the smile from his face. His shoulders relaxed in relief. "Thank you!" he yelled, throwing his own glass in the air. He and Louis both tossed their glasses back, but as soon as it touched France's tongue-

Ugh! The horrible, bitter taste was back! France choked, spitting whatever wine he didn't swallow out and sending the rest shooting down his windpipe. He hacked and coughed, and the acidic alcohol burned every inch of his chest and throat. He scrambled for his water, waiting for a break in his coughing fit before tossing it back as well. The aftertaste was so strong, he tasted it in the water, too. Gulp after gulp, he drained the acid, slamming it back on the table.

"Are you alright?" Louis asked carefully.

France nodded, still feeling droplets all down his throat. He waved for another glass of water, and as they filled it he cleared his throat multiple times, wiping away the tears in his eyes. He easily chugged his second glass, but then felt odd. He could still taste the bitterness, churning fiercely in his stomach, sitting restlessly on his pallate and throat. He made to put the water glass down, but his arm responded clumsily, sluggishly, and he accidentally knocked it over. He tried to pick it up, but his fingers refused to curl around it. His eyes lost focus, his vision blurred, suddenly there were three glasses, three plates, three Louis's.

The room started to warp and slant. The balance in his mind shifted, toppling over, and France shook his head to try and clear the dizziness and the spinning of his head. "L-Louis . . . ?" he mumbled. What was happening? He blearily looked at his glass, trying to analyze through the fog slowly building in his mind.

Wine . . . bad? Wine making him sick?

"Louis . . . "

"France, I'm sorry," reached his ears, but it was muffled, like he was hearing it underwater. It took a few bleary-eyed blinks before Louis came into focus for just a moment, holding up a small clear bottle. France stared dumbly at it, trying to process what the three swirling objects in front of him were. He'd seen that before, where- "It's the laudanum Monsieur Buonnaroti gave me. I'm sorry about the party, but I just cannot let you carry on like this for much longer. You need sleep. You need it now."

His lids started to feel heavy, and France blinked hard to keep them open. He stood up fast, or, as fast as he could, but his legs had stopped responding. He couldn't feel them underneath him. He dumbly still took a step out from his chair and collapsed into the table, his elbow thrown on the top the only thing holding him up. With each blink he resisted the heaviness in his lids, the urge to drop to sleep. The room was spinning too fast . . . he had to shut his eyes . . .

The white blur that was Louis got up and ghosted over to him. With a sharp nudge he slid France's elbow from the table, and he crashed to the floor. His mind was blank, too clouded to fight, and his lids slid shut.

"How much did you put in his glass?" Louis' warbled voice said.

"In the water, enough to kill a man. In the wine, enough to kill a horse. Probably two," came the reply. France recognized the voice, but couldn't peel his eyes back open to see who said it.

"He tasted the bitterness. He's going to hate me . . . "

" . . . Needs the sleep . . . "

The drowsiness won, finally claiming him, and France dropped off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Leave a comment if you have time!
> 
> Longest chapter ever. The word count right now not including this note is 36,561. Hope you all like it. I had another round of intense research on Jeanne, on the Kings, on France's age as I project it across the centuries, a BUNCH of stuff, but it's all worth it to make the story historically accurate!
> 
> We're about a year away from Bastille Day.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has commented, kudos-ed, and bookmarked! Also, thanks to those who have stayed with this fic for this long! And a special thank you to my beta-reader - you know who you are!
> 
> This was my first ever sex scene. Let me know how I did.
> 
> -Keyblader


	15. Chapter 15

_**?** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles** _

France had a calm and pleasant dream.

He was in Louis XVI's library, but the room itself was larger, much larger than the real room. At least the size of the War Drawing Room. Everything looked . . . elongated. The gilded square panels that decorated the walls above the bookshelves stretched into long rectangles to compensate for the bigger room. The bookshelves themselves, built into the wall, were normally tall and narrow. But here they expanded to cover every inch of the walls. The only section spared of books were the two windows on his right and a wide space on his left for the extended fireplace. Even the rug underneath his feet, normally covering half of the normal room, stretched to cover the entirety of the floor. The desks, knick knacks, globes, chairs, portraits, busts, and chairs all looked ridiculously small in comparison. It confused and disconcerted him, but he didn't care for very long.

In his dream a cloudless sunshine poked through the windows and lit up the room. The round table and chairs, normally in the center of the room, were off to the side, closer to the windows, and extra rows of standing shelves that weren't in the real room lined the other half. He was warm and comfortable; the fire was just the right heat for relaxation.

France took a few steps into the room, and turned back towards the chairs and tables. Spain and Prussia were sitting there. Chatting, laughing. He could see their mouths moving but couldn't hear what they were saying. And another man sat between them, not talking to them. Just sitting with his hands folded on the table. He looked completely out of place, with long, wavy brown hair and an incredibly long brown beard. Aged face, in sharp contrast to their youth. He wore a white cloth shirt, just a plain linen shirt. But he had a crown on his head that even in its simplicity put Louis XVI's to shame: a circlet, with two pearls and square jewels alternated around it. The roses that stuck up around the band alternated large and small.

France stared at him, knowing he was a King of France and knowing that he should know him, but not knowing his name. He stared and stared to the point of impropriety, looking into his brown eyes and at his hair and his crown, willing some tidbit of information to come to him and give it away. The man frowned back at him. Eyes never trailing anywhere other than France's.

His curiosity got the better of him. " _Qui . . ._ "

" _Je hebt gegroeid_ ," he said to France in a language he didn't understand.

France just nodded, unsure of what else to do.

Behind him he heard the patter of tiny feet, and when he turned he saw himself. A giggling child with short, blonde hair and piercing blue eyes shot past him. He had on a blue and yellow tunic, and he was chased by an older man with long, curly brown hair. Had kind of a mousy, impish face - and a crown on his head. Louis III.

Austria stood by the window with his violin, simply tuning it. Playing open fifths between the strings and trying to adjust, and while he tuned Marie stood next to him, gabbing cheerfully. She only wore a shift and a pink silk robe over it. No opulent dress or ridiculous head piece. Hair curled, but down. She didn't seem to bother Austria, but Spain and Prussia did, as he would occasionally glare at them for the noise they were making.

England walked straight across France's vision, and as he followed him over to a bookshelf, England stood on his toes and snatched a book. France saw him wearing Tudor fashion - round, stiff ruff encircling his neck, a thick orange tweed jacket, with striped, puffy doublets and black tights. Wide hat with a feather. He opened up the book and started talking, pointing to the page. France blinked, and saw England talking to Louis XIV.

Le Roi Soleil interrupted him to turn to France. "I have plans for this land, Monsieur. You will be strong again. The first thing I'm going to do is make myself absolute monarch. I am the sole ruler of France, not these country dukes and marquises who claim to have a piece of my power." He turned away, and continued his conversation with England.

Philippe Auguste and Louis VIII stood together - between the two of them, everything France owned but a small part of Bordeaux was united under the French crown. Stared at a map on the wall and talked.

" _Il me faut touts les territoires_ ," Philippe said to Louis, sweeping his arm across the map, " _être dans les mains de la France selon 1300_."

He figured Louis XVI would be there as well, so he walked among the shelves. He found Italy and Romano cowering behind the first one. Both in their servants' outfits. Romano kept pushing Veneziano and Veneziano just cried and cried. Right behind them, strolling through the shelves with his hands clasped behind his back, was Philip IV. Smiling and walking as though he didn't see the two Italies. France kept walking, peering down each row as he passed to see who was there. The next row over, Italy was a little bit bigger, and he was with Holy Rome. They weren't talking, just holding hands and looking at each other. France paused, but Holy Rome peeked around Italy and stared at France. Just stared with a small smile. France moved along.

Charlemagne walked down the next row with his back to France, holding a little France's hand and talking to him. Long, brown tunic and tan leggings, cinched at the waist with a rope. Little France had on a long shirt that drug on the ground behind him. Louis VI appeared at the other end of the shelf and knelt down to talk to little France.

The last and final row of shelves was where France found Louis XVI. Dressed in his white marriage outfit. Solid white, the only color a blue sash across his chest. Standing with his shoulders squared to France as though he was waiting for him, but eyes glued to the floor. If nothing else, if nothing else in this whole world, France could say Louis Auguste de Capét XVI was consistent.

France walked up to him, and Louis smiled stiffly. He opened his mouth. Shut it. His eyebrows furrowed, and he opened his mouth again. Louis craned his neck forward, grabbing his throat. His chest expanded with a huge breath, but when he released it, all France heard was a dizzying wheeze. Louis sucked in breath after breath, wheeze after wheeze. He cleared his throat, the only sound to escape was an intense hiss of air.

Louis panicked. His eyes widened, he shook his head. Lips trembling from the strain. He reached forward towards France, grabbed onto the front of his shirt, clawing France and trying to haul him closer. Desperate to tell him something. France stepped back and shoved his hand away.

"Are you going to say anything?" France asked him.

He kept trying and trying, growing more agitated with each attempt to make a sound. Finally, France shook his head. He moved past Louis, flattening himself against the shelf and shuffling along since Louis kept grabbing at him, still trying to speak to him.

France stirred, gently floating away from those people and that place. There was a moment, a feeling of happy weightlessness, then he dropped straight down. France flinched so hard he jerked himself awake.

The wall his neck was craned towards blurred instantly. The shape of the window slanted. The bright light blinded him, and he had to shut his eyes. The pink hue of the room and the glare of the gold panels on the wall still pulsed behind his eyelids, making shapeless patterns, dancing and spinning. " _Where am I?_ " rang hollow in his head. It seemed like a distant problem. Like he'd be able to worry about it eventually. He had to get his head on straight first. He wanted to sit up, but he knew if he did, the room would start spinning again and he didn't want that. At all. It was bad enough when it happened involuntarily. He would not bring it on himself.

Everything felt heavy - his head pressed into the pillow, his eyelids, his limbs into his bed or couch or wherever he was lying - especially his limbs. He felt like if he moved them, it would take a momentous effort that he didn't have the initiative to take on. They felt unreal and disconnected from the rest of him, like phantom limbs.

His head was on a squishy pillow, at least. Which was actually very comfortable with the exception of his neck, stretched to one side. He was on his stomach. Whoever laid him there took that into account-

  
Wait.

Who . . . ? Where was he? How did he get there? He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything that happened.

He remembered . . . the Hall of Mirrors. He remembered running down the Hall of Mirrors and running back. He remembered sitting down with Louis. They talked, but he couldn't remember about what. And every time he tried to think past that point, it was as if his mind shut down on him. There was just . . . nothing there.

Did he die? He didn't die . . . did he?

A sudden burst of fear stabbed into his neck and spread furiously down his spine.

Who killed him? They could still be there.

He kept his eyes closed but tuned into his surroundings. He mustered up the energy to stretch his legs, and though it took a moment, his toes finally uncurled. He could tell he was lying somewhere soft; his legs sank straight into the bed or couch or wherever he was laying. Silk fabric, warm on his chilled skin, under his fingers he felt silk fabric. On his stomach, so someone knew to lay him like that. Windows and sunlight to his left. He could tell from the way the sunlight hit his face and the glimpse of the window he got before he had to shut his eyes that he was in his room. His room at Versailles.

His room . . . how did he get . . . He was eating dinner with Louis and . . . and then what?

Why was he even eating with Louis in the first place? Louis wanted to talk to him. About . . . ?

The note! He received a note that morning. Louis wanted to talk to him about Brienne's party.

They talked. Louis talked about . . . he didn't want France to go to the party. But France knew that from weeks ago. Maybe they talked about it? Yeah, that sounded right to France. They did.

And then the wine was bad. It had a funny taste to it. And he heard Louis and someone else talking.

Louis. Louis drugged him.

The party! How long was he asleep?!

His eyes shot open. He scrambled up to a sitting position from where his was on his stomach. Bad choice. The moment his eyes were level with the room, his head instantly swam. He toppled over, luckily catching himself with his elbow. The bend in his skin made his back throb evilly, but the laudanum was definitely dulling most of the pain. "N-no! What day is it?" he asked to the air. "How long . . . " His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He felt sluggish.

"The 28th of August." France followed the voice and saw his favorite person sitting on the floor at the foot of his bed with his back to France. Next to his chest.

"The 28th?" In his head he tried to fit the pieces together.

Lunch was the 25th. The party was the 25th. And today was the 28th.

The party. He missed the party.

"You ass!" he spat to Louis. "I missed the party! You made me miss the party!" He blindly reached around himself and grabbed up the only weapon he had - a pillow - and chucked it at the back of Louis' head. Despite his cognitive impairment, and the three Louises he saw at once, the plush weapon slapped against the real Louis and glanced harmlessly away.

Unfazed. "And be glad you did," he said, far too casually for France's comfort. "You looked awful, France. Absolutely awful. You looked ready to fall over at a moment's notice. In fact, I think you did fall over at one point."

"No I didn't," France argued.

"Yes, yes you did," Louis insisted.

His voice irritated France. His voice, his arguing. With each word out of his mouth France's jaw clenched tighter and tighter. He remembered arguing with England like that when they were children. "No, I _didn't_! And how would you know? You haven't been watching me!"

"Not that you know of."

"You _weren't_ , you- . . . " An insult that didn't sound like it came from a five-year-old escaped him. "You did this on purpose! You knew how badly I wanted to go to the party! You _knew_! But you didn't want me to go so you did the only thing you knew to do to keep me here! Against my will!"

"No," Louis insisted, shaking his head. It looked odd since he didn't turn and look at France. Not once. He was holding something. "I was concerned about you and your health." He paused. He fiddled with whatever was in his hands. France couldn't see it over Louis' head. "With the amount of laudanum that Buonnaroti and I gave you, I'm quite amazed it didn't kill you. Not that we were trying-" he added quickly, but France cut him off.

"What are you holding?"

Louis' back straightened against the foot of France's bed. " . . . You know, I often forget that you are not twenty years old." Louis sighed, as though fed up with something. With life. With France. With the situation. "I forget that you are a centuries old mind in the body of an twenty year old. Every so often I get a reminder. When you reference previous rulers that you met in person, or even when you mention my grandfather's childhood. And sometimes when I'm speaking to you you lapse into Old Provençal French that nobody's spoken for centuries. It's a surreal experience, the actual realization and understanding that you were there, and you've seen history with your own eyes. It's hard for me to wrap my head around."

"What are you talking about?" France scooted closer to him, and saw that Louis was on the floor of his room, legs crossed. Making him look childishly devilish. He had a stack of papers in his hand, papers of a much thicker parchment than what was normal. Folded in a square unlike the normal tri-folded letters.

He had some really old papers in his hand.

Papers old enough that only France could own them.

Papers that he recognized, weathered with age. Looked at so often that France had already memorized the crinkles and age lines. The dents where his fingers curled around them.

Louis picked one that he had already read off a pile on the floor. Opened it up. And read it aloud to France. "Take this, for example! The language and syntax are a little archaic, and I had to read it a couple times before I understood it. ' _I will speak Plainly: You are the only person who makes me feel Ultimately and Perfectly Loved. And we've now known each other for several Months, so if it is not in Haste, I feel it is the proper Time-'_ "

"What are you doing?"

" _'-for me to Admit that I Love you as well. Unconditionally, with a Deep-Rooted Love that sees beyond the Outer Surface._ '"

Jeanne's letters. The realization was a shot of adrenaline in his mind. A sharp jolt. In a sudden burst of clarity, he caught up with time. The room stopped swimming and spinning. The headache was gone, replaced by a cold sharpness. "Those are mine!" France yelled. "Where did you get those?!" He threw the covers off and leapt off the bed. Louis shot to his feet as well.

"' _With a Love that Accepts you for exactly who and what you are,'" he babbled as quickly as possible. France ran towards him and Louis clambered away. "'Regardless of your Flaws, your Shortcomings, or your Faults. The same Way that you Love me-'_ "

"Give me those!" Louis took off. France bolted after him, chasing Louis into his drawing room like they were couple of children playing a malicious game of keep away. "Louis!" France screamed. Louis circled the outside of the room, and when France tried to cut across the floor to catch him, he quickly placed the settee between the two of them. His last line of defense between him and France. For the moment. "Louis, give me those!" he yelled.

Louis made a break for the door to the hallway, but having to fumble with the handle and throw it open forced him to hesitate. He only had one arm through before France quickly caught up, throwing all his weight into the door. Louis gasped, whipping his arm back through the door; the SLAM missed Louis' arm and fingers by inches, and the wind from it blew the curls of his wig back. He staggered back through the doorway, and in a second, all of Louis' playfulness was gone. His eyes were wide, and he was staring at France incredulously. Panting out of surprise or exertion. France couldn't tell.  
  
"Are you MAD?!" Louis yelled. "You could've broke my arm!"

"Give. me. the. LETTERS!" he growled back through his teeth, placing the unspoken threat deep in the back of his throat. Like an animal. Like Prussia. His anger surged, and with it his eyes flared. Waves of rage rolled off of him in nearly tangible in the air. He felt his blood boil, igniting his heart in his chest. Choking him. His fists clenched at his side so hard they shook, like all he wanted to do was rip a vertebrae out of Louis' spine with his bare hands. His breath came fast, he felt like he couldn't breathe.

Rage had taken over, and rational thought had been pushed violently to the wayside. Louis' face was stuck with that dumb look of horror, his jaw on the floor. France ran forward and Louis backpedaled until he hit an end table, nearly toppling backwards and knocking everything off of it. France didn't hesitate. He grabbed Louis' lace cravat as hard as he could, making sure to shake him a bit as he twisted it in his fist and hauled him forward off of his feet. Inches from his own face, he hissed in Louis' face, "Give. me. the. letters." He could feel the heat of his own breath off of Louis' face. No more jokes.

"Please! T-take them, please!" he sputtered. He practically threw them into France's chest, and France threw Louis back so he could grab them before they scattered to the floor.

"These are _my_ letters! These are MY. PRIVATE. LETTERS!" He flared his eyes, he let his rage shine in them with a threatening glint. Louis said France could intimidate with his glare? Good. He wanted to put the fear of God into Louis. He felt so . . . violated. He felt so violated and betrayed and his heart felt sick. He felt as though Louis had trespassed into the most intimate part of his heart. And he looted and he pillaged and he destroyed everything he found there. All of France's emotions, strewn about in the open rather than locked safely away where he could revere them. Like those people who broke into his home. His most valued and treasured secrets and heirlooms profaned and defiled in a violent fit of personal sacrilege.

"I'm sorry, alright? I'm SORRY!" he screamed back.

"SORRY DOESN'T CUT IT! You VIOLATED my privacy, and my-" His heart hurt. He felt like it was being squeezed, dragged down into his stomach. Forced back up to his throat, and then dragged back down again. "Where did you find them?" He knew exactly where Louis found them. He gave him a chance to either admit it or lie. "Louis, where did you get them from?"

"The chest in your room."

"I keep that locked! How did you get in there?!"

"I guess you forgot about my fancy for locks and locksmithing. That's okay, most people forget, you know. It's not exactly a very 'kingly' hobby," he rambled, spewing like the words could save him. Louis slipped his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a rung of ten different lock picks and tension rods. "My father and my grandfather both used to tell me to abandon my fancy with locks. They said locksmithing should be reserved for the locksmiths, and it wasn't a skill that would be of any use to me as a king."

France reached out and snatched the rung from his hand, and Louis yelped in pain when France accidentally bent one of his fingers. "Easy!"

"No! You don't get to dismiss this! Why the HELL-" he yelled, hurling the rung across the room over his shoulder. He dragged Louis closer again, but it was awkward. His legs were stuck in a half-extended position behind him. He choked from the strain on his throat. "-were you going through my chest?!"

"I just wanted to look for correspondences from Paris," he admitted. I wanted to check and see if you were going to follow any leads or gather information or anything while you were there. Like what you did when you went to Paris a while ago."

He was lying- since when did Louis care? He didn't even listen to France about the _lettres-de-câchet_ , or the tension in the streets that was steadily climbing with each of Louis' missteps. The word 'revolutionary' wasn't in there, before the word 'correspondences', but France heard it all the same.

The accusations, whether intended or not, felt like a cold-water bucket was dumped on him. Louis was so dumb. So stupid. So simple-minded and so vapid. And he was stupid enough to sink so low as to think that France . . . would sabotage himself? An ironic chuckle gurgled in France's chest, then died in his throat. It came out instead as a strange grimace. France let Louis go, backing away from him.

Un-be-lievable. "What do you think, that I'm a _traitor_?! Huh?! That I'm somehow plotting the ruination of myself?" Actually, the thought wasn't half bad. And the fatalistic irony! He started laughing. "Hahahahaha! At this point, why not?! Hahahahahahahaha! Why not just END it now?! You're moving waaaaaay too slow for me, Louis, so why-" A laugh caught deep in his chest, so loud and so forceful that he wheezed on the first two heaves of his chest. Tears sprang in his eyes. "Why don't I go ahead and try it myself! I c- AH!" he yelled, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I can't even do it! I'll just wake RIGHT back up!"

He caught Louis' look - half horrified, half confused - and he broke down even more. He doubled over, clutching at his aching stomach. "Hahahahahahahahaha - whoo! I can't believe you're that stupid! I can't believe you're _that_. _stupid_."

Louis' eyebrows furrowed in anger. "How dare you-!" France matched Louis' gaze, his laughter instantly quieting as though he was never laughing in the first place. Louis quickly retreated again. "Uuuuum, no. No, I don't think you're a traitor. I promise. I trust you fully and completely."

"You didn't even let me go to that party anyway! You _drugged_ me!"

"I did that because of your health. And I only thought of the correspondences after the fact. I'm sorry."

"I . . . I'm so angry, I don't even . . . I can't . . . Why would you _do_ that?" His heart ached. "This stuff is private. These letters especially! These are my _memories_! These are my _history_. These are _me_."  
  
"I'm sorry," he said again. " . . . Put me down." France released Louis where he was, and he slumped to the floor, rubbing his throat.

"Get out. Get out of my room!" France screamed, jabbing his finger at Louis. "Don't you ever touch any of my things again. Do you understand me?"

Pause. "I'm sorry, since when do you set about ordering the King?" Louis asked.

There was a moment. A solid second and a half of silence, where France's dumbfounded soul left his body. He ascended to another plane of existence, overlooking everything going on in their conversation. The room faded away, Louis faded away, and he was alone. And he screamed into the black abyss of that plane. What? When he returned to his body, he had a response prepared. "Are you kidding me? You're gonna grow a spine now? _Right now_? And against _me_? No! No, no, no, you ABSOLUTE- . . . GOD!" he yelled. "Oh my GOD!"

"What's wrong? Are you somehow upset that I refuse to let you intimidate me anymore?" Louis' lips curled into a snobbish smirk, like he somehow checkmated France in their game of verbal chess.  
  
"Hah!" France barked out a laugh. "Is that so? You can't even look me in the eyes and every time you do you look away within seconds! You don't scare me, Louis. And you never will." The words that would do his rage justice escaped him, too. "Don't you start with me. I refuse to play this game with you! I refuse to have the same conversation with you over and over and over again! You're gonna tell me you're _trying_ and I should be _grateful_ for it. And I'm going to tell you that you had years and years to get on this shit! And we're going to talk each other in circles until we're DIZZY!"

"Maybe I don't want to scare you. Did you ever think about that? Maybe the entire world isn't out to get you. Maybe you haven't noticed lately due to your perpetual whining, but I actually care about this country. I know this ship is sinking fast, but maybe, just maybe I'm not trying to take you down with me!"

"My whining?" France yelled incredulously. Louis thought France was the whiner? "Well maybe I have a reason to whine, all things considered. I've been trying to tell you-" He realized the direction of their conversation and slapped his palm to his forehead. "Oh my GOD. Here we go. And you know what? For the RECORD," he yelled, hoping to change the course of the argument. "I started ordering the 'King' around," he said, putting it in air quotes, "since he set about touching things that weren't his."  
  
"And he only started doing that since he had a reason to believe that his Nation, somebody _very_ important to him, was hiding something."

"Pfah!" France snorted. "Hiding something. Like, the social crisis? The hatred the Third Estate has for you? The ineffectiveness of the Parliament? I haven't kept _anything_ to myself in regards to Nationality."

"Paris?" Louis asked. "You didn't tell me about you Parisian escapades."

" . . . " Crap. France decided to ignore him. "And if I've been 'important to you' this whole time, I'd like to see you _not_ set me as a priority."

"Okay, I know I haven't exactly been the best ruler-"

"Understatement of the century-"

"BUT! But, I'm trying. I'm really trying."

What an idiot. "Would you SHUT UP about how 'hard' you're 'trying?' TRYING isn't GOOD ENOUGH!" France screamed.

"Which is why Jacques Necker returned to court yesterday. He has _plans_ , France, and so do I. We're going to do something."

"Oh, wait, really? He's already here? That was fast."

"He says you owe him money."

" . . . That was . . . _also_ fast."

"You do, then?"

"Yeah, it's from a while back but it's fine. I can repay him."

"Really? I thought we had no money!"

"This probably comes as a shock to you but I used to get _paid_ by every monarch, starting with Louis VI. And that was in the 1100s. Towards the end of Louis XV's reign was the start of when the finances went down, so I took a freeze then. And actually, you're _lucky_ I work for free. There isn't another Nation on this planet who would do that. So, in other words, _you_ have no money, Louis. The S _tate_ has no money."

" . . . Y-you . . . " Louis began. But he dropped his eyes to the floor, so France assumed he chickened out. He opened the door to the hallway and gestured grandly for Louis to leave.

"I don't really care. You should go."

"You can't just _do_ that!" Louis said. "You can't just pick and choose what parts of your job you want to be associated with! Some days you say you _are_ the state and represent it, some days you couldn't be far enough away from it! Some days you want to work with Brienne and me, and some days you want nothing to do with either of us!" Louis' weak voice grew stronger and stronger with each word, until he felt powerful enough to raise his eyes. "You come and go as you please, and that's not right!"

"Name one thing! One! That I didn't see through to the end before I backed out!"

"The Assembly of Notables! You went to one session, and backed out."

"Oh, so what? That was a bust before it started! Calonne was digging himself a hole long before that ever convened-"

"That's not the point! You didn't stay! You quit the Assembly and you quit on Calonne. You ran away to Paris, and I had to bring you back by force. You quit on Brienne, too. You left me halfway through Brienne's run, and I had to beg you to come back for bits and pieces of it - which were shots in the dark. The taxes? Maybe France wants to do that. The Declaration of the Fundamental Laws of France? Absolutely not! France really isn't feeling up to that one today," he said sarcastically.

"You want to talk about picking and choosing? Fine! You were perfectly okay with raising taxes to aid America. But when I mentioned raising taxes on the Second and First Estates for real problems in France? All of a sudden it's not okay anymore! What else? That letter about disbanding Parliaments? What do you do as soon as I get back? Did you disband them?" France stared up at the ceiling, eyebrows furrowed, in mock thought. "Mmmm, nooo, it took you, me, and Brienne giving them a taxation ultimatum that they then refused before it even became an option in that messed up rationale of yours! You're mad at me for picking and choosing what I want to do, but then you pick and choose what you want to listen to me about!"

"Then I guess we're both good at cheating people, aren't we?" Louis said dismissively, crossing his arms. His face curled into a childish pout, and he arrogantly stuck his nose in the air.

"No, _you're_ good at cheating people. You're good at lying, and making promises you know you can't keep to the people you should be working to please! All _I'm_ good at is knowing when to get out before something gets ugly. Because when things get ugly, who do they harm, you? Maybe, in reputation, but no more than that! No, when things get ugly, _I_ pay the price! Well you know what, I'm going through some stuff that isn't even my fault. You'd think that since you're the cause of my pain you could cut me some slack every once in a while. What, are you too selfish to care, or are you genuinely too dumb to see it?"

"God, France, take some responsibility for ONCE," Louis yelled as loud as he could, "You pathetic excuse for a Nation!" His outburst shocked much of the rage right out of France. "Someone as old as you - and yet you're acting like you've never had a bad King in your life!"

"Never one as bad as you-"

"Maybe I was bad in the beginning, but it was right around the time that I started taking an initiative that you quit! And now you want to tell me that I'm to blame for every one of your problems, even after? Even after you quit and ran away you're still trying to pin all of this on me?" he asked, jabbing his finger violently at himself. "I'm so sick of you thinking the world has to stop for you. That _my_  world has to stop for you! I'm so sick of you thinking you have it so much worse than the rest of us! It's like, your problems are always worse than everyone else's! It's always France's crisis, and it's never anyone else's. You walk around like you're the only one trying to deal with this when in reality you're the one moping and whining, while I have an entire financial cabinet trying to run the country. You have a whole country, including me, trying to run itself in your absence without tearing itself apart! Guess what: it's not working!" He rubbed his face tiredly. "No one else is allowed to have a crisis because France's problems are worse! Well grow up, France! Pull your head out of your ass! Look around you, at the state! Look at what it's become! And maybe, just maybe, when you're not too busy moping you can get off your ass and stop depending on people like Calonne, or like Brienne or Necker to fix it for you. And maybe, just maybe, you and I could collaborate and work to FIX this mess, rather than me picking things at random, basically behind your back, and seeing if it makes things worse or better!"

France leaned in, and for emphasis he lowered his voice. Dangerously low. "I warned you. I warned you over and over again what you had to do to fix me. And you. didn't. do. it," he enunciated slowly, poking at Louis with each word. "GOD!" he screamed. His anger surged once again. If he weren't holding Jeanne's letters . . . Instead, he stomped over to the settee and planted his foot into its side, shoving it so hard it slid into the wall, chipping away some of the pristine white and gold plaster. Louis jumped, backing away from him once again. "And what about you, you hypocrite? You think I'm the one depending on people like Calonne or Brienne? You think I'm the one who has no idea how to run a state? RRgh!" he growled. "Trying to have a conversation with you is like . . . It makes me want to gouge out my eyes with rusty spoons."

"Trust me, the feeling's mutual."

The rage in his heart festered, traveling up his throat. A maliciousness coated his tongue like poison, and the words floated quickly and effortlessly from his mouth. " . . . Just wait," France warned him. Louis thought Necker was going to just walk in and save everything? No. France wouldn't allow him that. France wanted to ruin every hope Louis had. "You brought in the most two-faced man you could've possibly brought in, and you didn't even realize it. You didn't have the situational awareness or people awareness to know. You don't think ahead, you definitely don't plan ahead. And you don't have the manipulative techniques to take things as they come. You have no clear conception of France, or Europe. You're a poor judge of character and you let everyone you know influence you. I bet Necker lasts . . . mmm, six months. _If_  that. Calonne liked the money and Brienne genuinely wanted to help, but Necker? Necker has better and closer ties to the people than he has to you. If that doesn't scare you, it should. Know why? Because he's not going to stick around like the other two. He's smart enough to know when this job isn't worth it anymore, and he's going to know when the people are the safer option. He'll betray you without a second thought. And when you're left all alone, facing down a mob of angry Frenchmen, you won't even have me to help you."

" . . . Are you saying you're done?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying. If you don't even trust me enough to respect my privacy, then you can't expect me to stick around and help-"

"You won't leave me."

France stared into Louis' eyes, even going so far as to bend down and hold eye contact when Louis ducked his head. He poured every conviction he possessed into his eyes and whispered, "Try me."

France expected Louis to back away like he always did. But instead, Louis' fists clenched at his sides and his eyes flicked back up to France's. His own eyes flared, and he fired back for once. "No! I won't let you intimidate me! You won't leave me. You _won't_! You tried it before. You've been saying you're done time and time again. And you always come back. It's your job."

"Try me," he repeated. He didn't even care if his own words held any merit. He didn't know if he'd be back. But he wanted Louis to know that even if he stuck around the palace this time, he was halting all of his political actions. "You're on your own." Louis opened his mouth to reply but France cut him off. "Do you even know anything about Jacque Necker's policies and thoughts on the status of France? You better read up on him. And if you're not on the same page as he is you better get on the same page as him because he is quite literally," he said, chuckling darkly. He rubbed his forehead against the thought. "He is quite literally your last hope. You won't get another chance." France backed away from the door. "I'm gonna need you to leave now."

" . . . " Louis' mouth opened. Closed again. His eyebrows furrowed. He opened his mouth like he was going to yell, then closed it again. "You can't just-"

"I QUIT!" France yelled. "DONE! You don't betray my trust this many times and get away with it. You crossed a line with me- you just destroyed EVERY last desire I had to help you! You crossed a line with me you can NEVER re-cross. You're a coward, and a failure as a King and a person. Get out. I don't even want to look at you anymore."

France turned away, carefully uncrinkling the letters in his hand as best he could. He folded them back up into their square, following the folds already creasing the letters. He closed them on themselves, locking away the beautiful and cherished words in themselves. He put them in order. He smoothed them out. He took meticulous care of them, but a heavy-hearted misery still sprang up in his heart. He let someone violate her privacy as much as his. He let someone else wreak havoc on her most secret thoughts and feelings. He betrayed her as much as he himself had been betrayed. And he felt horrible about it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her, clutched the papers close to his chest. "I'm so sorry." He walked them back into his bedchamber, shutting the door behind him. The chest at the foot of his bed lay open, the padlock still open and hanging off the latch. He gathered up everything Louis had strewn on the floor. Not bothering to look through. He didn't care what else Louis saw. He saw the letters. And that was enough to set his grief alight. He put the letters back in their proper place, in a small box in the bottom, and stacked everything on top of it. He closed and locked the chest, and sat on the floor with his ear against the door until he heard the soft snick! of his drawing room door close behind Louis.

* * *

 

 _**September 11, 1788** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles** _

  
_'Francey-pants,_

_Hello? Where are you?_

_Haven't heard from you for a couple months. You still okay?_

_What the heck is going on over there?_

_Don't take this the wrong way, but you're still doing your job, right? No, wait, what I mean is, King Louis is still consulting you on the finances and the policies and the diplomacies and everything, right? I'm only asking because Thomas Jefferson's been my ambassador to you for years now. And he says he hasn't met you once. He says any diplomatic meetings have been between him, King Louis, and the Parliament. He says he hasn't interacted with you on any political front._

_King Louis hasn't bypassed you, has he? Because he can't do that. Can he? I don't know how direct monarchies work, but technically some stuff should still require your signature. Right? If King Louis is as bad as everyone says, and on top of that he's not even consulting you, that's bad news._

_I'm honestly scared for you. Britain told me what happens when a Nation's boss doesn't listen to them about important stuff. He told me what happens to a Nation when civil war breaks out. And he says that's where Louis is taking you. Just do me a favor and stay safe. Do your best to stay afloat, and do your best to keep your wits about you. I don't want to see you suffer, and I don't want to see you fade away._

_And if you need someone to slap Louis around a bit you know who to write to. I'll be over there faster than he can say, "Baguette."_

_Alfred F. Jones; The United States of America_

_I'm thinking of changing my name soon. I'm not sure, though. My Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton thinks I should change it to "Alexander" for obvious reason, but Alexander F. Jones doesn't feel right to me. George Washington suggested something rugged but simple like Jeffrey or Thomas - but George named one of his dogs Sweet Lips so I don't know how much I trust his naming talents. One of my best friends is a French immigrant and he thinks I should pick something French but give it an American spelling. Like John Claude or something, but I definitely want it to start with "A". What do you think? Send me back suggestions.'_

* * *

 Oh, America. France had too many problems to go and worry about America's identity crisis.

Speaking of, how long had France had the name 'François?' Keeping a name only worked for about fifty years or so before arousing suspicion. A vigilant Nation could maybe swing seventy-five. It was easier next to monarchs, when people were cycled in and out constantly, with both young and old people at Court. Not that France was in any danger, but he could use it as a bit of a fresh start. A positive but monumental change that he, and only he, was in control of. He only had three names that he kept on a cycle: François, Louis, and Jean-Pierre; though he rarely used the last one anymore unless he was feeling old-fashioned since it was pretty outdated. He usually picked a surname at random, or sometimes he even kept the Bonnefoy name. All he had to do was say he was someone's son, or cousin, or nephew, and he was good to go. He could draft his own papers in less than a day, too.

" _I think I will change my name_ ," he decided. It sounded exciting and fun. Maybe he'd even pick Jean-Pierre this time considering how sour the name 'Louis' was on his tongue at the moment.

Jean-Pierre Dubois, Jean-Pierre LeChiffre, Jean-Pierre Saint Martin . . .

Maybe after this Louis ran his course France would change it. Whatever course that may be.

* * *

 

_'Mi amigo,_

_Just checking up on you! Prussia and I haven't heard anything, and we want updates! How's Louis? Is he better? Is he worse? Has he been making decision by himself? Are they based on your suggestions? Is he using your help? Are they improving the state? How's the Estates General moving along? Everything planned and ready? Also Prussia wants to know if the rumors are true about Marie Antoinette and Count von Fersen._

_THESE ARE THE THINGS WE NEED TO KNOW!_

_I hope you're not answering because you're too busy fixing the state._

_If you need anything, I'm your next door neighbor. Just ask me!_

_Maybe me and Prussia can stop by again sometime soon, too? I'd like to see Louis in action. Maybe I can scare him into listening, just in case he's not._

_I hope you're doing okay!_

_Antonio Fernandez Carriedo; El Reino de España'_

* * *

 

He was most certainly not doing okay.

* * *

 

_'Beauty,_

_Brute-y here! Yeah, that's right, Spain told me what he said about the three of us that one time in a letter! He thought I'd be mad, but I kind of like it. It's perfectly suitable to each of our personalities:_

_1\. You've got a nice, naturally sexy face._

_2\. And then Spain's butt is a work of art! I bet he could crush fruits between those cheeks._

_3\. And me? I'm the most rugged. I'm fierce, I'm driven, and determined, and Awesome in every way._

_I like boasting about the fact that I'm still the most powerful out of all of you. So actually, maybe I should thank Spain for those completely true descriptions of the three of us. Every time I think about it, it reminds me of how cool I really am._

_Anyway, down to business: you need to send me and Spain updates. Some more rumors are spreading, and you're definitely not answering anybody, so we're just a little worried for you. Plus, I heard a little thing about Queen Marie and Count Axel von Fersen and a certain Diamond Necklace Affair that I want confirmed or denied. Either way. Spain said I'm being too nosy, but I don't think so!_  
_Let us know what's happening so we can help you if you need it. Spain will provide the booty and I'll provide actual military assistance that's going to help people._

_You're welcome,_

_Gilbert Beilschmidt; Das Königreich Preußen'_

* * *

 

Hm. France couldn't quite remember all the details surrounding the necklace. It was in 1785. Why couldn't he . . . ? What was he doing in 1785?

Oh. Paris. France was in Paris at the time. When Louis XVI kicked him out of Versailles. He only knew about it because it was all over the papers and all over every pamphlet in France and he dutifully ignored it. He heard the rumors, but at the time he was too afraid of what it could do to him if he was fully aware of it.

How did Prussia even remember it, and why was it just surfacing now for him? And Count Fersen? Whatever. He didn't want to deal with it.

* * *

 

_'France,_

_Under normal circumstances, I'd begin this letter with an insulting introduction. Especially so, considering the nature of our last exchange. But these are not normal circumstances, and I want to remove all pretenses of loathing right from the very start. I want you to know right now that I write to you out of genuine concern. I want you to know that I care deeply for you and for your well-being, and I don't want you to suffer through this, or worse, fade away. So you better read, and listen, carefully, because what I am about to say could make your pain all the more easier to bear:_

_I've been keeping tabs on you. I've been watching, and listening. Your situation has not improved from what I've heard. Your social system is unraveling from the bottom up. Your finances are failing, your people are starving, the social unrest is palpable and I swear to God above it's choking me from over there! What's more, you're being affected physically by all of this._

_Let's be frank: physical injuries do not come from internal and infrastructural problems. They come from war. The fact that Louis XVI's reign is harming you physically - I cannot stress enough how frightening that is. That means that whatever Louis is doing to you is destroying you. Literally destroying you._

_I will not let that happen._

_I recently did some digging through my old belongings, to look for anything and everything that may help you. Or even help me help you. I looked through my mother Britannia's writings; Brittany's; Saxony's; what I own of Normandy's since you probably have the other half; and especially William the Conqueror's treatises. OLD stuff - nearly deteriorated in my hands. I should've taken better care of it than I did, but either way, I found what I was looking for in William's writings._

_You see, by the time he was finished with England he already had his court in Normandy all set up and ready. With two courts, he could effectively rule from either place in a pinch - which he often did. He wrote all the time about exploits in Normandy, and I'm sure you probably have her records of his excursions to England somewhere._

_So, with the crown of Normandy and the crown of England on his head, where did that leave his Nations? He set up an ingenious system for Normandy and I: when he was absent from Court, the Nation in question was to act as regent until his return. For example, when he was in Normandy, I would have been acting regent for England had I been old enough. And when he was with me in England, she was to act as the Norman regent. It works in reverse as well. If Normandy ever couldn't do her duties, William could stay in England and I could fill in for her and if I ever couldn't perform my duties, William could stay in Normandy and she could come and fill in for me,_

_The clause was never written out of policy. Instead, it was phased out of practice as soon as the thrones split once again to two human rulers and two Nations. But, since it was never officially ABOLISHED, I can use it to both of our benefits. I brought the documents before His Majesty and William Pitt (Who is the Prime Minister, just in case you’ve forgotten), and explained the situation to them. I also admit I may have exploited my political and personal sway as the National representative of the Kingdom of Great Britain to persuade them that I needed to leave my post and become the de facto National representative of the Kingdom of France._

_After speaking to both of them and to the others in Parliament, I've received a leave of absence to go and attend King Louis XVI's court and take your place as his Chief Advisor. I would sit in on any and every personal meeting, every Parliamentary meeting, every financial cabinet meeting, everything he could possibly convene as the King. I would take your place at his side and advise him and perhaps influence him to help you. Not only would it give me a perfect assessment of his true political aptitude, but it would also allow me a chance at Parliament, and at Louis - and perhaps I could begin to turn things round again in your favor._

_This is not the norm for all Nations - unless their rulers set up specific circumstances as William did. For example, I wouldn't doubt that Austria and Hungary set something up with Maria Theresa once she became both the Archduchess of Austria and the Queen of Hungary. They could fill in for each other, but no others could fill in for them. Ours is specific to you and I, and technically still in effect._

_I have not officially signed any of the papers yet, nor has George or William. George at least wants me to stay for another month or so, until we solve this anti-Catholic rioting we have going on over here. But just know that I plan to come over there and stay for as long as I have to. And if Louis has a problem with it, I'm going to bring William the Conqueror's writings with me. I'm told Louis speaks fluent English. I wonder if he can read Middle English? I don't suppose he will, and if he does I'll just make sure he knows who's in charge anyway._

_Don't forget what I told you. You're too strong to fade away. And I suppose I'd miss fighting with you if you did. Hold on, be strong, and do your best until I get there. Whether you like it or not I'm coming._

_Arthur Kirkland; The Kingdom of Great Britain'_

* * *

 

The letter disgusted him.

God, if Britain came over . . . The thought of it disgusted him, irritating the knot in his stomach so much he scoffed out loud. That would be awful. So completely embarrassing! And no way would Britain ever let him live it down.

He was annoying. He was callous. He was rude, and dull, completely ungraceful and inelegant, socially awkward, and he was abrasive - no way would France let him just waltz in and wreak havoc on his already havoc-wrought Court! No way would France let Britain corrupt his self-governing and . . . autocratic . . . state . . . He could govern himself, thank you very much! And no, Britain was absolutely not staying in Versailles in the first place.

God, if Britain came over. " _. . . Don't be stupid!_ " he scoffed. He kept up the façade for about two more seconds before sighing bitterly in defeat. " _Don't be stupid._ " How much of France's disdain was from his assumed hatred of Britain, and how much of it was from the fact that he so desperately wanted Britain to come? He just wanted Britain to come in and take over and deal with Louis for a while so he could rest. He could alleviate some of the pain (and, most definitely, take some on himself), and France could feel relief for once and just . . . not function Nationally for a while. Of course he needed Britain to come over.

So, he supposed, the real question was how much of his pride was he willing to put aside to accept the help? He could just wait for Britain to step in on his own and save him some of the shame. "I refuse to accept your help, so you'll have to force it on me," type of deal.

Louis spoke English fluently, so that wouldn't be an issue. And even if it was, France was certain Britain spoke French. He just adamantly denied it anytime someone brought it up. Still, though, a bit of indignation made France doubt. What would Britain do that France couldn't? He thought of Britain's reaction style: when France met opposition, he said his piece and then waited for the reaction. When Britain was met with opposition he huffed and scoffed, but was usually quick with a shut down and convincing counterpoint. Hopefully he'd be able to deliver it with enough fervor to convince Louis to do something right. He'd still have to go through the Parliaments, same as France. He'd still have to deal with Louis' indecisiveness. If Britain stepped in, would he bring in King George's policies and ideas and the British methodologies on governing? What if those methods and ideas were completely different, and nobody had any of it? He'd be no better off than he was now.

" _Well, at least he'd try,_ " he thought to himself, but quickly dismissed it. France just yelled at Louis for 'trying'. If trying wasn't good enough for Louis in France's eyes, then it was hypocritical to assume it was good enough by his own standards. Trying wasn't doing anything anymore. Action, and specific action, was the only thing that would help him now.

* * *

 

 _'France,  
_  
_What's this business about "you've quit your job?"_

 _And why am I hearing about it in a letter from Florimond Claude, Comte de Mercy-Argenteau?_  
_Once again, your lack of correspondence is putting me and my Court in a very precarious position. Britain thinks you're heading for revolution - a violent revolution. You're probably in pain, and if you've given up, that's fine. I honestly couldn't care less at this point. But I will not let your apathy bring harm to Maria Antonia. To my princess. If the French people revolt, I will have no quarrels with sending an army over to escort her out._

_And I'll leave King Louis XVI there for the masses._

_Don't make me come over there again._

_Roderich Eidelstein; Kaiserthum Oesterreich'_

* * *

 

Should he talk to the Comte? Even when France was politically active he never really had many interactions with him. The Comte had spent all of his time with Marie as her advisor.  
Maybe. He'd maybe talk to the Comte.

* * *

 

 _Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy_  
_Chief Advisor to H. R. M. Louis XVI,_

_I, H. R. M. Louis XVI, King of France, personally invite you to attend the convocation of:_

_The Second Assembly of Notables,_

_opening on_

_the 5th of October, 1788._

_The purpose of the Second Assembly of Notables is to discuss the fairest and most appropriate way to proceed with the organization of the Estates General, that I am determined to convene in 1789. Your participation in this Assembly would be invaluable to the continued stability of the state. I pray that you can be with us on the date, and offer your well desired and well respected thoughts and opinions._  
_For this Assembly, you are assigned to the:_

_First Bureau._

_You and your other bureau members will answer a series of questions pertaining to the logistics of and the representation of the Estates General._

_You will also be given an optional position next to me, H. R. M. Louis XVI, and my personal finance minister, M. Jacques Necker. In this position, you will be allowed full representation of the entire state as you require and desire. All decisions of each Bureau will be run through you, where you will decide the best course of action from each._

_You may refuse the position, and still attend the Assembly with the full respect that you deserve._  
_I pray your intense desire to aid the state compels you to make the right decision._

_Signed,_

_Louis_

_The 11th of September, 1788'_

* * *

 

Irony everywhere. Hypocrisy abounded. Every sentence of Louis' 'personal' letter (written by someone else probably) dripped with snide comments. Subliminal torment. Delivered with the utmost of precision to poke the right kinds of buttons inside of France.

In reply, the throbbing in his back that seemed to be his constant and only companion shot up his neck and into his temples. He groaned in reply. "Please don't," he muttered, as if it would help. France pressed his thumbs into the sides of his head and closed his eyes, massaging furiously. He flopped back onto his pile of pillows.

About halfway down he remembered his ripped the bandages off his back earlier.

He tried to arch to his side, but he was too far down. His skin slapped against the pillows, and the agony was instantaneous. His bruise ached, the open cut and the irritated skin around it chafed roughly against the blankets and edges of the pillows, and a deep-set burning erupted inside his cut. Like someone took a horse-hair brush and scraped it on the hypersensitive skin. Set a fire underneath his raw skin. Hot, fiery torture, even through his arms and into his fingertips. He let out a harsh, stifled yell before the searing was enough to stop in his throat, and derail the thoughts in his brain.  
  
Tears sprang to his eyes, some even gently spilling down his face. He rolled back onto his stomach, shoving his finger into his mouth and clamping down so he didn't scream. Praying the open air would help him. He was in too much pain to tell. It was so hot, he couldn't even feel the cool touch. His whole body clenched against the pain, so hard he shook, and the tightening of the muscles set it throbbing once again in a vicious cycle.

Ten seconds passed. Twenty seconds passed. Before finally, it started to subside. It left his shoulders first, and France gradually relaxed them against the bed. He waited until the dull throbbing was the only thing left before he gasped in a breath. He didn't breathe at all through it.

 _Ouch_.

What a dumb first thought to have. But that was all he could muster.

_Ouch. Ouch. Ouch._

On repeat. In time with the beating of the throbs.

He lay there for he didn't know how long. Just lay there with his eyes closed. Until he felt ready to sit back up. He braced his hands to either side of him, and the folding of his skin pierced through his entire back. " _Okay, okay. Fast. Like ripping the bandages off of it_ ," he tried. He counted himself off, and in one fluid motion dragged himself back to a sitting position. He moaned in pain, but was glad he was finally back up.

Still, he hunched over on his bed to keep the skin taut. France looked over his shoulder, and sure enough a long red stain was smudged on his covers. There were other papers there, too. Wrinkled and ripped from where he landed on them. Right. The letters.

He gathered them all up. He couldn't even remember what he read and didn't read. Okay, Austria, Spain, America, all read - there was one still folded. France opened it up, saw the odd address to him at the top, with his full human name, and remembered.

Louis' letter. Louis' stupid summons to the Assembly of Notables.

' _I pray your intense desire to aid the state compels you to make the right decision._ ' That jerk. Angry all over again, France crushed the letter in his fist. The idea of ripping it up flicked briefly across his mind and he even switched his hands to do so. But instead of tearing it like he wanted to, his nose started to bleed.

" _Merde_ ," he cursed, feeling the blood rush down. He snorted some of it back up, even feeling some of the coppery, metallic taste drip down his throat while he searched for his handkerchief. But his jacket was across the room. With no handkerchief in sight, France uncrinkled Louis' letter and used it to pinch his nose.

It was kind of symbolic, he thought, chuckling dryly. It about summed up everything France felt about the letter. His opinion of Louis.

Wow, and he was really bleeding. France couldn't pull the parchment away for more than a second before the blood was already dripping. And what he could see of the parchment when he tried to look was almost entirely a shocking crimson, right away. He tried tilting his head back as well, but all that did was send more of it down his throat.

He only had one more unopened letter to read, then he'd be done. He could do this.

" _But first,_ " he thought, looking around his room. The many vials of laudanum Buonnaroti gave him over the course of his visits. Seven or so. On a whim, he decided to drink some. Something small twinged in the back of his mind, the idea of weakness, but he cast it away. Just enough to dull the perpetual throbbing of the raw skin on his back, he told himself. Just enough to dull the pounding in his head. To calm the trembling of his hands and to strengthen his legs. The prospect of getting up and actually grabbing the stuff seemed momentous, though, so he took a few moments of physical preparation before he pulled himself out of bed. Stiffly stumbled over to the table.

How much, two vials' worth? Two wouldn't knock him out like when Louis drugged him. Two sounded fair. He held the vial with three fingers and pried the cork out with the other two, gently smelling the contents. The same bitter aroma he smelled in his wine glass reached him, and he almost decided against drinking it. He still felt severely betrayed. But, the prospect of a quieted throbbing and the opportunity to live pain-free was too much.

When France chugged the first vial, the bitterness he tasted from his drugged wine glass was far more intense than he remembered. The nasty taste assaulted his tongue, and he retched before he could help himself, spitting it back out all over the floor. It burned the back of his throat, and everywhere he pressed his tongue in his mouth he got another burst of the rotten flavor. He coughed, clearing his throat over and over to try and remove the gross sensation.

Whoops.

The second vial wasn't as bad. The disgusting taste from the first one still coated his tongue and dulled his tastebuds to it. He grabbed another one from his table and tipped it back as well to make up for the one he lost.

And just as he was starting to feel it, just when the throbbing was going away, pushed to the back of his mind by the bleary calmness that seemed to overtake him, he made sure he had a firm grip on the parchment around his nose and ripped the seal off the last letter with one hand.

_'We touch the moment that must decide forever our freedom, or our servitude of our happiness or our misery.'_

No, wait. This wasn't a letter. This was something else. A publication or something. France kept reading, more curious than interested.

_'This alternative depends absolutely on the character and principles of the Representatives to whom we entrust the care of settling our destinies in the General Assembly of the Nation and the zeal which we shall show in order to recover the sacred and imprescriptible rights from which we have been deprived._

_We have been warned hitherto to steal a few moments from our domestic affairs, from our amusements, from our indolence, to meditate on the important choices we ought to make: The nature of the vows and demands which we ought to bear in these solemn Committees, or France will regenerate or perish without return?_

_Hey! Why should I swing to read it? While the dangerous enemies which this province contains in its bosom watch to ensure the perpetuity of their empire, we still sleep under the weight of the chains given to us. It is time to warn the Artesian Nation of the fatal traps with which it is surrounded; It is time to invite him to reflect upon the objects most interesting to his happiness. We believe that it is none the more important for her to recall the particular States of this Province to the true principles of their constitution, and to adopt the wise measures to arrive at this salutary reform; And it seems to us that we shall fulfill our duty as a good citizen, by developing here all the reasons which demonstrate the necessity of pursuing it, with as much activity as perseverance._

_C'est l'Adresse à la nation artésienne_

_Par_

_M. Maximilien Robespierre_  
_1 Septembre, 1788'_

  
Robespierre.  
  
How long since France heard his name mentioned? Heard his name half-whispered in the streets, like he was some forbidden treasure? He'd only surfaced in France's attention occasionally, but every time he did France felt the awe the French people had for him. How much work had he done in the underground in the meantime? Clearly a lot, if the treatise was anything to go off of.

Robespierre was eloquent, he was passionate, he was confident and outspoken, and it was easy to see why he was considered something of a savior among the people. France already knew that.

But this. This treatise. Bold words from Robespierre. Bold words. Scary words, even. Fighting words.  
  
Revolutionary words.

France loved all of them.

This was fantastic. France read and reread. He picked apart every line and found symbolism and found truth and found everything he ever wanted to say tucked into the words like pristinely wrapped gifts. Within the very first sentence, he summarized France's situation without any sort of exaggeration or dramatics. No downplaying, no inflating. Just a straight fact that France appreciated to no end. And in the very next sentence he posed the only possible solution of this particular idiom. Robespierre was appealing to the good character of the French people, and asking them to elect people of the same character. People like Robespierre, out for the greater good even at the detriment of themselves. Maybe it was a good thing Louis invited France to the Assembly of Notables, then. He could see Robespierre and hear his arguments for Third Estate representation.

Ah, if ever France had the chance to speak to Louis again about Third Estate representation, he would absolutely steal Robespierre's lines to argue his points. Louis could have nothing to say back, no argument.

France quickly checked the date on it, and saw that it went to press almost two weeks ago! Robespierre timed it perfectly - smart man! He had to have known the summons for representatives would go out soon. Smart, devious, and calculating too, if France had to take a guess. But those words sounded negative, and he didn't want to think of Robespierre like some conniving criminal. He was a great man. The public was going to read this! The public was going to read this and understand everything that was happening. And they'd help. And if the people started helping then the Estates General would help and it wouldn't turn into the joke France so desperately feared it would. 

Robespierre's words in just the opening of his treatise had done something to France's heart. It stirred up some sort of hope and emotion that he hadn't felt in a very, very long time. The excitement that somebody else understood, understood so deeply, and was going to such great lengths to spread the word and make others understand energized his heart and ignited something in his spirit. Pride, perhaps?

Maybe France would talk to him. Wouldn't that be fantastic? What if France had a chance to collaborate with Robespierre? Together, they'd definitely be able to convince Louis. The two of them would be able to make him do anything they wanted him to do. Robespierre's and France's charisma and energy all packed together.

The next line - brilliant! " _The zeal which we shall show in order to recover the sacred and imprescriptible rights from which we have been deprived_ ". Not only does the happiness of Third Estate France depend on representation, but also the passion the people have in pursuing everything the nobility took from them - now those were definitely revolutionary words. The French people "sleep under the chains the nobility has handed to them". Quality analogy.

Robespierre's support meant even more to everyone because he wasn't poor. He didn't go hungry like some of the poorest in Paris. He definitely owned his own estate and was educated. And well-spoken. And likable! And yet he was willing to stand up for others.

Louis did not even compare to someone like Robespierre. Whether or not Louis was 'trying' now, as he put it, he'd never understand just how hard he'd have to work. Robespierre was already working.

Louis did not and would not ever possess the interpersonal talents Robespierre was naturally endowed with. He'd never speak as well as Robespierre, write as well as Robespierre. He'd never have the charisma. He'd never be able to reach so many different people at once, and keep them engaged for long enough to hear what he had to say. And he'd never have the passion to convince people of his opinions. Instead of someone like Robespierre at the helm France was stuck with an imbecile.

France's nose felt dry, and crusted with dried blood, so he finally felt safe enough to peel the parchment away from his face. It looked disgusting. Covered in streams of fresh blood and globs of congealed blood. Smudged all in the writing, saturating the parchment and making it dangerously thin and weak. Hmph. If Robespierre were King, or at least in charge of something, this wouldn't have happened to him. If Robespierre were King, he wouldn't have to drink himself to sleep every night, only to wake up screaming from the pain in his back.

Speaking of drinking himself to sleep, he actually forgot about the throbbing in his back. Still there, but soft. Able to be forgotten. The laudanum had done all it could for him. He thought of drinking another vial, but the glint of the other wine bottles he had sent to his room caught his eye. He decided to pop the cork off of one. He didn't bother pouring a glass. He just drank it straight from the bottle.  
  
Just imagine what things could be like under Robespierre.

Drink.

The Third Estate would not nearly be suffering like it was. France's body wouldn't literally be tearing itself in half. He wouldn't be depressed.

Drink.

He wouldn't have this stupid cut on his back. He'd be able to sleep. And see people and see his friends. And go shopping and buy fancy clothes and keep his hair shiny and do things and eat bread and not feel sick and-

Drink.

What good Robespierre could do for Third Estate France. France wished Robespierre was King.  
  
Somewhere between bottle one and two-and-a-half, and about ten more times through Robespierre's work, all that pride he had turned into something less . . . valiant. Something a little more rage-based. Jealousy. Contempt. " _God, France, take some responsibility for ONCE, you pathetic excuse for a Nation!_ " Louis' voice echoed over and over and over again in his head. " _Pathetic excuse for a Nation. Pathetic excuse for a Nation._ " Well who made him like that? " _Take some responsibility for ONCE_." For once. Really? _Really_?!

He replayed his and Louis' whole entire argument in his head. Thinking of all the things Louis said that were plain wrong, and misinformed, and all the accusations. Everything he could have said that would have really shut him down, dealt a killing emotional blow he wouldn't be able to recover from. His drinking turned angry. There was about a quarter of the bottle left, so he drank the whole thing in one go, ignoring the acidity and the burning in his throat and how the aroma filled his nose from the bottom of his sinuses up. He shook the last few drops into his mouth and threw the bottle as hard as he could against the wall.

The sound of the glass shattering made him feel a little better. The release. He grabbed up the other one and smashed it as well, aiming for the stains on the wall from the first one.

He drank three more bottles of wine. The laudanum already slowed him down a bit. Calmed him down, dulled his pain. Gave him a gentle floating feeling that he loved. Combatted oddly by the sad and angry feeling he had, supplemented by the wine. He couldn't quite feel his fingertips anymore, even when the warm, tingling feeling of the wine started up. He couldn't quite see completely clearly. The room looked like it had a white film over it. He kept drinking. Thinking.

If Robespierre were King. France could just end it now. A bit of deliberate regicide never hurt a Nation. Not for very long, even if it did. It worked for Britain - Charles I. It worked for the Roman Senators way back when - Caligula. Countless others in European history. And in almost every instance, the Nation was against the ruler. All it took was a little initiative, maybe a little arsenic. A cord, even, to wrap around his throat and snap his neck. God, humans were so _fragile_. They broke at the slightest touch and- Wait! What if France gave him enough laudanum to kill a horse? What if he killed Louis the way Louis killed him? And France could be free of Louis forever and just wait until either someone assumed power or the monarchy got their stuff together and rounded up the sickly Dauphin.

The Dauphin probably wouldn't- . . . His birthday was-and he was sick so probably not be King. France couldn't even think straight anymore.

Somewhere between bottle six and bottle eight, he decided to go looking for Louis.

Trying to stand up from his bed was a fun experience. He tried to slide himself off, nice and slowly. He planted his feet two or three times on the ground below him just to make sure his feet were on solid ground and that his legs were prepared to straighten up. They still felt clumsy and sluggish, and there was two whole seconds of obvious delay between when he told himself to move and when they actually did move. "Whatever it'll be fine we got this." France knew he was buzzed, but as soon as he tried to stand up and his brain hit an altitude higher than where it had been for the day, it sent his entire world spinning around him. He thought the ground was right there under his foot but then it moved and so he toppled backwards, landing straight on his back again.

"Ow," he muttered on impulse, but he didn't even feel it. Tricky ground.

He tried again and made sure to keep his weight forward the second time so he didn't fall back. And suddenly his face bounced off the wall.

"Oh, hello, when did you get there?" he asked it.

As soon as he got himself standing (leaning?) France began his promenade. His promenade to Louis.  
  
He didn't know what he was going to do. He really didn't think it through or plan it out and any time he did try to think it through his drunk mind would wander and the literal buzzing of his brain and senses would grow just a little more intense. But he wanted to find Louis. He wanted to find him, he knew that! He knew he wanted to find Louis and maybe talk to him. To give him a piece of his mind. Finally, right? Finally give Louis a piece of his mind. Finally. His wound still oozed blood and seeped, and he could feel it running down his back and pool into his waistband while he staggered. But it didn't hurt anymore. How bad could it be? The halls of Versailles strobed in and out of focus all around him.

They all looked the same - all of them. And he didn't pay attention to where he was going when he left his room so he had no idea where he was or where he was even going anymore to find Louis. He also didn't realize he was shirtless until he needed the wall to help him along and it felt colder on his shoulder than before. He knew he was barefoot but the lack of a shirt kind of shocked him. Oh well. Too late to go back now. He didn't even brush his hair for this - he was on a MISSION.

He circled the Hall of Mirrors three or four times before he realized what he was doing. It was dead. Completely dead. No people, no candles burning, no nothing. He kept getting turned around by all the mirrors. He kept thinking they were open doorways and he kept bouncing off them. He kept thinking he was going one way but really he was going the other way and it didn't help that he couldn't walk in a straight line because he was so drunk. He managed to escape back to where he came from and peeked into Louis' bedchamber, right next door. " _Mmm, not here_ ," he thought to himself. But he wanted to make sure. He almost tottered a few steps in before the guards stationed at the door blocked him, crossing their weapons in front of him.

"You can't go in here," one of them said, shoving his halberd in France's face.

"Oooooh, put that away," France said. "You n' I both know 's only decorative."

The guard smelled the wine on France's breath and his nose crinkled. He glared down his nose at France. "Monsieur Bonnefoy, you're drunk."

"Hell yes, I am. But jus' because I'm drunk doesn't mean I can't find Louis." France tried to shove their lances aside and push his way through, but the guards held firm. He even braced his back against the door frame and pushed as hard as he could but they were too strong.

"Monsieur, get out of here!" he yelled. He turned his lance sideways and shoved France back, and suddenly France was back on the floor. Great. Now he'd have to get back up.

"Ooookay. Okay, you know what? I bet Louis' not even in there anyway. So thanks for nothing! You better hope Louis can vouch for you or else you'll be out of here by next week. Frickin' guards." Who did they think they were, guarding things?

France toodle-oo waved and backed away, instead opting to wander back through the Hall of Mirrors. He happened to catch his reflection in one of the mirrors and took a second to primp a bit, finger-coming out a knot that had tangled in his hair somewhere between his room and Louis'. He looked ragged.

Louis probably wouldn't be in Marie's apartments. France spun around to head the other way, down the hall of salons. He spun around way too fast, though, and tumbled over again onto the floor. He was getting mad. He had to freaking find Louis, now.

None of the chandeliers were lit in this part of the Palace, either. It was odd and quiet. He'd never seen the Palace this dead. There were always people out and about, servants, butlers, porters, guards, everyone. There was nobody here. The War Drawing Room looked especially dark from the deep grey marble on the walls, and a worming feeling in France's stomach made him feel like he shouldn't be there. Through the Apollo Drawing Room. The center chandelier was lit, meaning someone had probably been in here at some point. He was probably getting close. Through Mars, through Diana, through Venus, and finally through the Drawing Room of Plenty. The further and further he went, the more signs of life he saw, giving him a sense of relief. More lights, more sounds, more staff. He followed the bustle, and was pleased when he heard loud, boisterous laughter coming from a few rooms over. Oh, finally!

France almost staggered right up to the door, but a small voice in his head stopped him. " _Wait, I look atrocious,_ " he realized. " _I can't talk to Louis looking like this._ " France straightened his waistband, fluffed his hair up, and for some reason decided that was enough. No shirt was okay, no shoes was probably an insult, but his hair - absolutely not. His hair had to be perfect. He wouldn't be caught dead. France got as close as he could to the light bleeding through the door frame, but he didn't want Louis to see him yet. People were talking and laughing and eating. Who else was there? From where he was, France could see Louis, Marie, and . . . Necker? Maybe that's who that was? France didn't know, it was somebody France didn't immediately recognize. Whatever. Everyone else was irrelevant. He found Louis at the center of everything, playing cards with a group of men while the others looked on and chatted.

Poor Louis was on his own. He cleared his throat, straightened his back (as much as he could without toppling over), and paraded right up to the door frame. The guards blocked him, as he expected this time, but when Louis looked up and saw France's face, his hardened. "Monsieur?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

Since Louis addressed him, the guards shifted to the sides and let him into the room. He staggered straight up to Louis' table, even nudging chairs and people aside to have a clear view. "You sent me a letter today."

"I sent many letters to many people. Be more specific," Louis said, turning his attention back to the cards. Not even looking at France.

"Nnnnnooooo, no, no, no, no!" he slurred, unable to hide it. He had to think hard about the words before they came out, or he knew he'd mess them up. And he was not about to look dumb in front of Louis and all these people. "You're gonna look at me, and you n' I are gonna have a conversation!"

France looked all around for a seat, but there were no extra chairs available. Somebody had to move. He decided on the aristocrat to his right, slapping the playing cards out of his hand. He made a shooing motion with his hands. "Move."

The man looked at him in surprise and disgust.

"Move! _Dégage_!"

"I beg your pardon-" he began, but France cut him off.

"Shhhhhhh-sh-sh-" he said, waving his hand in the man's face. "Shush. Move." France didn't wait for him to decide if he was going to move or not. Instead, he shoved him as hard as he could from the seat. He crashed to the floor, and France positioned the chair until it was right in front of Louis. He flicked the tailcoats he forgot he didn't have out from under him before sitting.

"How dare you-"

"Oh, my God, get out of here already! What wazzat, Louis, sarcasm? Don't be smart with me! You know what letter!"

"Francis . . . " Louis muttered. His eyes flicked nervously to the other people in the room. " . . . You're drunk."

"I'm not drunk! How dare you I'm the soberest guy in the room. Okay, fine! Yes! Yes I am drunk! But is that crime? Did I commit a crime? No! No I didn't so y'know what?" He looked and saw all the other people in the room staring at him. "What?! Whaaaaat? Do you see something strange?"

France dug into the pockets of his trousers and showed Louis the letter. Still folded, still covered in black, crusty, dried blood and fresh scarlet blood. But the unmistakable Bourbon crest sealed in wax. He made sure to position it so it was facing Louis. there'd be no mistaking it for another letter.  
  
France held it up. Stared Louis in the eye.

And ripped the letter down the middle. He slapped the halves on top of each other and tore them again. As soon as it was well-shredded, he rained the pieces down on the middle of the table.

"Here's what I think of your damn letter," he slurred. He pointed his finger in Louis' face across the table. "I told you to leave me out of this!"

"Go back to bed," Louis insisted, gently slapping France's hand away. "I am leaving you out of this. Clearly you didn't read all that you were supposed to on that paper. And now you never will. And I am glad for it, to be quite honest. If someone like you, who conducts themselves in this manner, was leading the Assembly of Notables, and, by extension, the Estates General, it would be chaos."

Who was this Louis? This Louis with so much to say, who sounded . . . calm and collected and succinct? And powerful and decisive?

"You know what? I'm quite glad this happened, Monsieur. I was struggling with letting you go, but I think this quells my indecision. And it alleviates my sadness for doing so."

"Wait, what?" He was following Louis' words, but not processing their meaning. France couldn't think of anything to say back. This wasn't how the argument went in his head. He was supposed to rip Louis a new one and parade out like a hero.

Instead, Louis lifted his hand and motioned to the guards at the door. "Escort him to his rooms. Off the Hall of Mirrors, in my apartments."

They wrapped firm hands around his arms and hauled him up from the chair. "Don't touch me!" he insisted, trying weakly to shake them off. Once again, the sudden change of altitude made him dizzy, and he staggered into one of them. They pushed him away but, luckily, held him upright so he didn't fall.

"Wow," Louis said, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

France would've sworn that was for show. A public display of the fact that he was cutting all ties with France and admitting his disgrace. No! France was going to leave on his terms, not Louis'-

The guards tugged his arm. "His Majesty has ordered your removal."

"HIS MAJESTY can kiss my-"

"Monsieur!" Louis yelled. "I will give you one last chance to either escort yourself out, or have the guards do it for you!"

Even inebriated, France could tell he was fighting a losing battle. It was time to hold up the white flag. He sighed, numbly frustrated that this ended in defeat. That what was potentially his last encounter with Louis was going to end poorly for him. As the guards spun him around, in a final show of proof, France let Louis see his cut. He made sure Louis saw the purple-yellow-green smear of a bruise around it, the dried and fresh blood pouring from it and crusted around it. The kind of yellow-ish white tint it took on and the seepage, and how angry and irritated it looked.

"I'm sorry this is happening to you."

"No you're not," France hissed over his shoulder. "I swear to you I'll be back-"

"Lock him in there if you have to!"

"This isn't over!" France tried, as they dragged him back out through the doorway.

"Find a way to get over it, because I assure you, Francis, it is. Gentlemen, ladies, I apologize. He has been bedridden with a fever for weeks now, and is not in his right mind-"

_"Va te faire enculer-"_

"Confiscate all of his alcohol!" Louis yelled. "Tell the staff Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy is not to be served any more wine at Versailles!"

France couldn't fight the guards. They were too strong. Otherwise, he would have murdered Louis.

* * *

 

 _**December, 1788** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles** _  
_**France's Bedchamber** _

France couldn't feel his toes. He couldn't feel his feet. He couldn't feel his fingers or his hands. Couldn't stop shivering. Caught in limbo somewhere between a fever's aching sweat and the weather's stinging chill. Too cold to go without blankets, and too hot to spend more than a few minutes under them at a time. His heart was running wild in his chest. He couldn't breathe, feeling like it took all of his effort just to drag the frozen air into his lungs. So cold that it felt sharp, and cut through him with each breath. When he breathed out, it puffed in front of him like he was outside.

"C-close the windows, please," he asked the servant. The poor man someone (probably Louis) ordered to stay at his side. "Still cold." If France had to guess, Louis ordered him to watch France, but France wasn't even upset. He deserved a bit of what he got and plus, it wasn't like he was doing much of anything at this point.

"They are closed, Monsieur."

"Close them tighter," he grumbled quietly, thinking he said it only to himself. He turned away from them, weakly hoping it would do something.

" . . . I will . . . double check them, Monsieur." Oh. Wait. He heard. "And I'll get a fire going in your drawing room."

"Merci."

Day fifty-seven of this frost was not treating him kindly.

Day fifty-seven. Snow on his windows, dusting the gardens and the trees outside. It coated the cobblestone streets of the Versailles town and brushed the hills of the entire countryside. The fountains and ponds were frozen over the cobblestone streets of the Versailles town and on the hills of the entire countryside. Most definitely covering Paris, too. A biting, harsh wind that whipped the flurries around and cut through even the thickest clothes came with it. Cut through his blankets.  
  
France was facing the coldest winter in his memory. In his recorded history. Killing off all the fruit trees and spoiling grain stores and crops. Barrels of wine and cider were turning to icy slush and the Seine froze hard, so all the mills and machinery were inoperable.

If ever God intervened to make a situation worse, this was it. God was not on France's side this time.  
  
His bandages were cold, wet, and dirty. He couldn't stop shivering. His bones felt cold, his skin felt cold, his soaked bandages felt cold and dirty.

He couldn't. _get_. _warm_.

While the servant was in the other room, France heard the doors to his drawing room open from the hallways. The slow, deliberate footsteps that could only belong to a Versailles butler crossed the drawing room and stopped in the doorway of France's bedchamber.

"Monsieur Bonnefoy?" he asked. Luckily France was facing the door already.

"Oui," he muttered bitterly.

"Monsieur Cesare Buonnaroti sends his well wishes, and wishes to call upon you at your earliest convenience in order to treat your ailments."

"I accept his offer, and thank him p-pro-profusely," France stumbled. His face felt chilled and slow. "He may come at any time, during his earliest convenience."

"Very well, Monsieur."

The butler retreated from the room, and the servant waited until he left the drawing room as well before coming back in and sitting by France.

"That's good, that the doctor's on his way." France refused to comment. It wasn't like the doctor could make him feel any better. He could change his bandages, make small talk, and probably beg France to drink more laudanum to manage the pain. But France didn't want to drink any more. It dulled his pain but dulled his mind, too, not including how wine drunk he got on top of it last time. "I've started the fire," the servant said. "Shall I get you another blanket?"

"Oui, m-merci." He curled up tighter under the three he already had, dragging them further up under his chin. But it didn't make him comfortable. He groaned in frustration and tossed them off his shoulders for another few seconds before the aches made him shiver. The man left, and France was completely alone. He half closed his eyes, weariness washing over him, a distinctly vague feeling across his whole body.

He really felt awful. He didn't even realize how much he was trying to hide it until he was alone . . .  
  
"France, wake up," someone said. Probably the servant, returned with his blankets. How long had he been asleep? It felt like seconds, like a blink, but when he opened his eyes a maidservant in a fancy dress was there with a pile of blankets in her arms-

Wait.

Fancy dress. France looked closer. Two layered skirt. The bottom layer was gold silk, shiny and pristine looking. The over skirt, pulled up in the front to expose the layer underneath, was embroidered with red, pink, and gold flowers, sectioned off three ways. One piece that lay flat in the middle, with the two other pieces arcing out from underneath to connect in the back. The corset laced up in the front with matching gold silk ribbons. The edges, around her bust and circling around her collar, were white lace. The same flowers were embroidered into the bodice, and her three-quarter length sleeves sported the gold silk fringes.

Way too expensive to be a servant's dress. Which meant . . .

France looked a little higher, right into the concerned face of Marie Antoinette. Her adorably thin lips, plumped up with red stain, and her bright blue eyes, shaded with pity and fear as she looked down at him.

"Marie-?" Oh, no. He wasn't in the slightest bit decent. " _Merde_ ," he spat on impulse, already trying to get into some sort of upright position so he could bow to her. France threw the covers off of himself and propped himself up on his elbows. He was about to sit himself up, but a dizzy spell crashed over him like a wave. Marie and his room blurred around him, and he had to flop back down on to the bed before he fell over.

"Please, lie down," she told him anyway, a fraction too late. She stood and quickly grabbed the covers, gently pulling them back over him. France snatched them up rather ungraciously, but he didn't even notice with how chilled he was. "You don't look well."

"But you, on the other hand," France said, transitioning smoothly into some propriety. " _Ma reine, vous êtes la photo de la beauté_. If I were in any health to show you the respect you deserve, I would."  
  
"Thank you," she nodded. "I saw the staff carrying all these blankets. I heard you were sick, and I never see you anymore. So I thought I'd visit and talk."

"Marie, I appreciate the thought so much. You know I do. But I don't feel well at all," he answered honestly. "I think you should go-"

"Nonsense. Remember that conversation we had? About how I'm your monarch and you love me, and you're my Nation and I love you?"

"I remember, but it's not that. I want to be-"

"Alone? So did I. But you comforted me when I was upset and made me feel better, and so now I comfort you when you're ill." She lay a soft hand on the top of the blankets, smiling slightly at him. She must have felt him trembling underneath them - almost instantly her smile vanished and she stood, grabbing a blanket form the pile she brought. "You're shivering!" She unraveled the blanket and shook it flat, then draped it over the ever-growing pile.

"Merci," he mumbled.

Marie stood over him and combed a bit of his hair away from his face, then lay the back of her had across his forehead. "You're burning up, too. I was right to call upon the doctor."  
  
"That was you?"

"It was."

"Merci."

"You don't have to thank me. I didn't know if . . . I remember, when Austria was sick, he would often tell my mother and I that human doctors couldn't help him. Is that one of these instances?"  
  
" . . . I think so."

"Ah," she said awkwardly. "I'm sorry, but he'll be here soon. Maybe he could do something, to at least ease your pain?"

"P-perhaps," France said, knowing it wasn't true but not wanting to criticize her kindness. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I just want to talk, like I said. I never see you anymore," she said.

"I really appreciate it-" Wait. That was it? Just to see him? She had months of France all to herself, there if she wanted him, after he 'quit'. Why now, when he was feeling his worst? He doubted her, thinking for a moment she was lying to him. "Louis didn't send you, did he?"

"Hah!" she laughed. "If he would have, I'd have said no. His quarrels with you are his problems, and vice versa. Both of you are respectable men, capable of handling your own mess."

" . . . This is why I like you, Marie Antoinette. How different you were when I first met you. I got to watch you bloom from a closed bud into a beautiful, thorny rose. I often-" he began. But he realized after he began that it was probably inappropriate to say. She urged him to continue.

"What?" she prompted.

"Nothing. I shouldn't say it."

"Tell me," she said. Her bright eyes flared, and her slight smile made it seem like it was a juicy Court secret he was about to share. Even though it was about her.

"I was going to say that I often forget that you are semi-politically active yourself, and I forget that you could be a force all to yourself if you wanted to be. I tend to remove you from my anger at Louis and the Court." He knew that sounded bad, like he was calling her ineffective and unhelpful. Maybe she was and maybe she wasn't. France didn't know how heavy her hand was in Louis' action at this point. But either way he didn't want to assume one or the other right now, since she was being so kind to him. He quickly remedied, "You watch from the shadows, you say your piece, and then you retreat."

"Well, Louis doesn't listen very well to anyone, does he?"

"No, he doesn't."

She smiled stiffly. "We have a saying in German. ' _Tomaten auf den Augen._ ' I think the French equivalent would be, ' _faire la sourde oreille_.' It means to turn a blind eye, and a deaf ear, or to be unaware of what's happening around you. It literally translates to, 'The tomatoes are over your eyes,'" she said, cupping circles around her eyes. France couldn't help but chuckle, and when he did her smile grew. "There! I made you laugh! Speaking of German," she said, changing the subject. "Austria and I write to each other often, and he told me about the piano you commissioned for him. That was kind of you."  
  
"I felt like I owed it to him after his visit. It was nice of him to go out of his way and come here."  
  
"Well he wants me to tell you about how much he loves it! He constantly invites Herr Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart to come play it, and his own teacher Herr Joseph Haydn from the Esterhàzy court in Hungary. The both of them love it as well, which says something, considering they're virtuosos."  
  
"I'm glad they like it."

"Yes, he does. Herr Austria tells me he enjoys Herr Mozart's company - although," she quickly remedied, chuckling slightly at the thought of it. "He told me they got into a bit of an argument last time they interacted."

"Oh, really?" France asked, not particularly interested, but not wanting to be rude. "That sounds like Austria."

"Yes," she agreed, nodding. "Something about one key sounding better than another or something. Herr Austria wrote a composition and upon showing it to him, Herr Mozart his choice of key was, and I'm quoting his letter directly, 'sloppy and inexperienced' at best and 'absolutely stupid' at its worst. It was quite petty and I could only laugh. I feel bad because Austria was extremely serious about it, but the way it vexed him was funny."

"Ouch," France muttered. "Mozart sounds rude."

"Yes, but he doesn't know that people could take offense to what he says. He doesn't think about the consequences of his words, and just says exactly what he is thinking, whatever it may be. He insulted Louis while he was here without even knowing it. Just continued talking, without realizing his offense. I pointed it out, and he profusely apologized, but he had no idea otherwise."

"Mm," France said flatly.

She paused, and her tone suddenly grew somber. "Have you heard from Spain lately?"

"Um . . . no," France said, thinking back to the last letter he received from him. When was that? How long ago? "Not since . . . September? I think?"

"Ah. He's probably been busy lately. The King of Spain died. Just last week."

Oh. "King Charles? Carlos?" 

"Oui."

"Oh . . . Poor Spain," was the only thing France could think to say. He truly did feel bad. Spain spoke of King Carlos with nothing but affection and devotion. He was a good ruler, with a lengthy reign that France could only assume was a good one. He probably hadn't heard from Spain because he was settling Charles IV in. "Spain loved Carlos III."

"It's a shame. He lived to a well age," she offered.

" . . . Yes. 72, I think."

The conversation lulled, and France sat shivering for a moment before Marie sighed tiredly.

"I do want to talk about something specific," she said, staring into his eyes. "Did you happen to see Maximilien Robespierre's letter?"

The letter. The very mention of it rolled a ball in France's stomach, so thick the pain was instantaneous. He winced, curling up on himself under the covers. His breath hitched in his throat, and he started coughing. Each bit harder than the last, until he was sure it would end with a broken rib. With each clench of his stomach another stab of pain rocketed through him, bringing tears to his eyes.  
  
A metallic, coppery taste burst in his mouth, and France covered his mouth with his hand. When he pulled away, he wasn't surprised to see blood spattered on his hand. his vision grew fuzzy, blacking out along the edges, and he knew what was coming.

France suddenly rolled to the other side of the bed and vomited into his chamber pot.

"Nrgh," he groaned, focusing on it. There was a bit of blood in it. Enough to give it a red twinge and that copper taste. "I'm sorry," he offered to Marie, like that would help. Or somehow make the situation less awkward. He peeked at her out of the corner of his eye, and saw her mildly disgusted face. Clearly she wasn't used to this sort of drudgery. A feeling of mortification spread into his heart, coloring his cheeks, and he quickly turned away from her completely so she couldn't see how embarrassed he was.

"Are you okay?"

"No." He paused to try and spit some of the taste out of his mouth. " . . . I'm okay. Marie, please go."

"I . . . I can't. I'm sorry, but I need to talk to you about this. I need to know what's happening to you."

"Why?" he asked, staring up at the ceiling. "Why right now? Can't this wait?"

"I've been an absentee queen for too long, don't you think? Louis' trying his hardest but even I can tell how precarious our position has become. We have to work together if we want this to work out-"  
  
"Marie, please," he said, cutting her off. "It's hopeless. Look at me. I appreciate you doing this. More than I can say. I appreciate you trying to help, and I appreciate you trying to keep me involved. But . . . I left for a reason. I just can't do it anymore. You've seen what it does to me. It . . . it hurts too badly."

She smiled sympathetically. " . . . I know that. But I want to help. I owe it to you. It's a duty and an obligation that I should have been doing from the start." France tried to roll onto his back, and Marie stood and helped when she saw what he was doing. Though, France noticed, she only touched his blankets. She never actually touched him except to feel his fever. "I'm so sorry. I wish I wouldn't have been so . . . clueless for so long. I wish I wouldn't have been so careless, either. I hope you can forgive me for taking so long to jump onboard."

"Of course," France said, and he meant it. He never held Marie responsible for the legislative errors on the crown's part. The financial errors, perhaps. But the fact that she was making up for it in other conscious ways and acknowledging her mistakes meant so much more to France than she could ever know, and he could ever verbalize.

"Louis regrets arguing with you, as well."

France's bitterness spat the words from his mouth. "His regret isn't going to solve anything."

"I know that, too. Which is why I'm taking matters into my own hands, as much as possible. So, the letter. Did you read it?"

"I did," France nodded. "I did, and so did the entire north half of the country, I bet."

"Yes, he put it to print about a month ago, now. How it made its way through the censor is beyond me. What do you think of it?"

This was dangerous territory. France wasn't about to be charged with treason and sedition. He thought about his next words, but Marie saw the careful calculation in his eyes. She reached out to him.  
  
"Look at me," she said. And his bright blue locked with her blue and neither looked away. "This conversation stays between us. I promise. I just want to know what you think. As a citizen, or even from your position as a Nation. Your opinion could decide our action."

"It was . . . effective. Powerful. Linguistically riveting and absolutely true. Kind of amazing," he admitted. "I loved every word of it. He kind of summarized everything that the Estates General could do for the Third Estate - given that it has appropriate representation. It made me want to be a part of the greater picture, something much greater than myself. It made me want to stand up for the future France that the Third Estate wants."

Marie nodded. "Effective indeed. I knew the Estates General was being proposed, but I didn't know what all it entailed. And I wanted to make sure it was the best decision for everybody - you included. So I did some research. Robespierre was calling for representation, right? At first I thought he simply meant the right representation, or, electing the right people to office. I found out he meant numerical representation as well. Each estate has an equal number of delegates, and the delegates all meet separately."

France nodded. "And you see the problem there."

"I do. Two chambers consist entirely of the Second and First Estates, so with two against one, it leaves the nation exactly where it had been, in the power of the privileged classes. They can veto anything that the third estate alone wants. They can impose anything they choose upon the Third Estate, by their two to one vote. It's the same principal for the Parliaments. They can prevent all reform that in any way affects themselves, even though it's absolutely necessary. Immediately following Robespierre's press release of his letter, Louis received almost fifteen that day about numerical representation of the Third Estate. More and more come flooding in each day from everybody - former deputies of the Assembly of Notables, common peasants, even noblemen and clergymen who want to see fair representation for all."

"Has Louis been responding to them?" No, wait! You're not interested, France!

"Not directly, no-"

"No, right, I meant legislatively."

"He's been discussing it with Monsieur Necker, but I'm not sure what his final decision will be. Louis wanted to leave it up to the Paris Parliaments - leave the idea of representation up to a vote. That way it's out of their hands, and Monsieur Necker agrees-"

"He's not serious!" France practically yelled.

"Monsieur Necker . . . I like him. I really do," Marie began. "But he's a bit flighty as well. He's so desperate to be loved by the people that I'm afraid he'll neglect Louis' needs of a firm hand."

That part of France and Louis' argument played in his head. "You're a poor judge of character and you let everyone you know influence you. I bet Necker lasts . . . mmm, six months. If that. Calonne liked the money and Brienne genuinely wanted to help, but Necker? Necker has better and closer ties to the people than he has to you. If that doesn't scare you, it should. Know why? Because he's not going to stick around like the other two. He's smart enough to know when this job isn't worth it anymore, and he's going to know when the people are the safer option. He'll betray you without a second thought. And when you're left all alone, facing down a mob of angry Frenchmen, you won't even have me to help you."

"You'll never believe what I told him," France mumbled.

Marie nodded. "Yes, when Louis offered to leave it up to the Parliaments, Monsieur Necker was in agreement. Personally, I think Louis should just decide in favor of fair representation himself, and here's why-"

"Because if the Parliament says no, it's destroyed their credibility as well," France realized before she said it.

"Exactly. The people have opposed nearly everything Louis has done, and so has the Parliaments, effectively putting them on the 'same side' up to this point. If the Parliaments say no, the last line of defense between the people and us is gone."

"Please tell me you've tried to warn him of this?" France asked.

"At the time, I didn't quite know how to phrase it. I knew I wanted to tell him to pass it himself, and I knew I wanted Parliamentary trust to be a piece of it, but the ideas weren't very developed at that point. I didn't know what to say."

"Say it to him, Marie, please! You have to! Please, please, you have to!" he begged her. He even stuck his arm outside the blankets to grab her hand with his clean one. "Please, Marie. You've been nearly silent up until this point. If even you must speak up against something he's doing, that has to speak volumes. Right?"

"I don't know. I will say something to him, though."

"You have to. Convince him to pass it himself. Don't even let him go through the Parliaments."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you."

"You don't have to keep thanking me," she said again, shaking her head. Her little blonde curls bounced lively behind her head with each shake, and France noticed for the first time that she didn't have any of her ridiculous headpieces on this time. Only a little gold tricorn hat to match her dress. Absolutely stunning. "This is what I should have been doing from the start." She looked so sincere, staring straight at him the whole time they talked. Nodding her conviction into her voice.

" . . . Where were you, for this whole reign?" France asked her. "If I had known just how inquisitive you are, how resourceful, and beautiful, and selfless you are, you and I would have had this discussion a long time ago.

"I don't know. Caught up in the grandeur, I think," she answered honestly. "I've always been fond of you, France. Maliciousness has never been my intent, if I've wronged you in any way."

France shook his head. "Please know, from you I never thought it was."

"But I'm here now. I do want to help. And I desperately want you involved. The two of us could be so much more influential together. Come to the Estates General."

"No," he immediately spat.

"I'll be there," she tried. "Unable to do anything but sit and listen to the opening remarks and the discussions. You could be there, in the thick of it! You could sit with the Third Estate, and you could stand and argue your points and say everything you feel! And with your charisma, and with the amount of power you have in just your gaze, let alone the way you carry yourself when you say something meaningful, I guarantee you'd have the entire floor on your side in less than a minute. Please, France, please consider going."

After this discussion with her, after sticking his toes in the water of the representation, after becoming mentally invested again, how could he refuse? How could he snub Marie like that? After she worked so hard for him, and stuck her neck out, how could he refuse her on the grounds of laziness? The thought of going right then exhausted him though, though, so completely that he sighed. "I don't know. I'm too sick right now. If I'm better by then, I'll think about it."

"How about this," she offered. "We wait to see what Louis does about representation. If he chooses to double it himself, you don't go. If the Parliaments decide to double it, you go, but be as silent as you want. If the Parliaments reject it completely, then you go as an activist, and representative of the Third Estate. Deal?"

"Leaving my fate in Louis' hands," he thought to himself. He detested the idea for a second, then decided it wasn't much different from his usual position. "Okay. Deal."

"Excellent. Thank you," she said. She reached out and gently stroked his (probably sweaty) hair.  
  
A butler edged into the doorway and announced loudly, "Monsieur Cesare Buonnaroti."

He walked in and saw Marie, bowing low. "Ah! Ma donna," he said in Italian. She stood and gave a slight curtsey.

"I leave him in your capable hands. At least try to make him comfortable."

"You have my word."

"I will do my best to convince Louis. In the meantime, stay well. I will bring you updates as they come."

"Thank you, ma Reine. _Vous belle, belle âme_."

* * *

 

 _**January 22, 1789** _  
_**Le Château de Versailles** _  
_**France's Bedchamber** _

"Monsieur Bonnefoy, someone from the kitchens sent up an onion soup - Nicolas Appert's recipe, from La Pomme d'Or kitchens in Châlons-en-Champagne. It's got meat stock and carmelized onions, with-"

"I know what it is. It was Louis XV's favorite. We used to eat it all the time when he - never mind. Do you know who sent it?"

"A woman named Gwen. She left this note." The servant walked it over to the bed and handed it to France.

  
_'I heard you were sick. Eat up._

_And if this doesn't make you feel better, you can always come back down to the kitchens and eat my-'_

 

France barked out a laugh so ugly, he slapped his hand over his own mouth to stifle it. "You little devil," he said. He supposed that was also a 'no hard feelings' gesture. "That's great! Bring it over." The servant set up a tray for France off the side of his bed, and even tried to help France sit up to eat it. But France quickly shook him off. "I'm not some infirm old man! I promise I'm fine. Anything else for me?"

"Yes. The papers from Paris, Monsieur, as you requested. The Queen sent it, and attached a letter." He pulled them out from their place under the plates and handed them over to France. He gasped, ripping them from his hands and opening it up, flipping violently to try and find what he was looking for.

"Did the Paris Parliament vote on representation?"

"I don't know. I can't read it."

He found what he was looking for a few stories in, right after, ' _Commentary on the American War of Independence_.' That actually sounded semi interesting and sparked France's interest, but he was on a mission. He could read it later.' _The question of equal representation for the Third Estate_ ' - there! ' _The question of equal representation for the Third Estate in the upcoming-_ ' Blah, blah, blah. France skimmed and skipped, looking for the ultimate decision that came out of it. 'T _he Parisian Parliaments have ultimately, in a near unanimous majority, pronounced in favor of the customary organization of the Estates General. There will be three chambers, all meeting with the same number of representation, unless otherwise instructed by Versailles._ '

Oh.

Every hope France possibly had deflated inside of him. "No . . . " France wasn't ready for this. What would the people say? What would the people do? He wasn't ready, in any sense of the word.

He realized that for the first time in his life, he was afraid of them. Afraid of what they could do to him.

France winced against a small twinge that show down his back, gently massaging the very top of his shoulder where he could stand it.

He wasn't ready for their fury.

What were they saying already? No doubt the talking would start soon - or was already starting. France continued to slowly skim the paper, looking for any sort of commentary or response that managed to make it to press.

" _The Parliament itself is a privileged body. It stands for privilege. The outcome of this vote should be a symbol to all men of the Third Estate of the aristocracy's alliances. To continue to be fooled by this Wolf in Sheep's Clothing is to do a disservice to your country and to your fellow countrymen-_ " Published by, guess who, Maximilien Robespierre. The man was gaining a following. His words were ringing true time and time again, and they were gaining weight.

France didn't know what to say. How to react. His heart felt heavy in his chest, sinking lower and lower into the pit of his stomach. He crinkled up the paper and tossed it away. "Throw that in the fire out there."

"Oui, Monsieur." He picked it up, and France watched him tread towards the door before an odd feeling in his heart stopped him.

"Wait!" he called. "I . . . Actually, I want to keep that. Do you see the chest at the foot of my bed?"

"Oui, Monsieur."

"The key to the padlock is behind the painting, in the bottom right of the frame. Fold that up and put it in there." He didn't know why he wanted to keep it. Every time he thought about it it made his heart and his stomach sick. But for some reason, he didn't want to let it go. Maybe for posterity's sake, if he even lived to see the end of this?

While the servant occupied himself with the chest, France peeled open Marie's letter. It was short, no more than a paragraph.

_'I'm sorry I could not do more, but now it is time to get to work. I am holding you fast to our deal, and you are to appear at the Estates General on May 5th. With a bit of finagling, I have secured you an honorary seat among the Third Estate, and an honorary position as a representative. The invitation, complete with your name on it, is enclosed - but just in case, there will be a place next to Louis and I if the mood strikes you, or you think it's best. Whatever you decide, make sure it is the best decision for you. You may ride with Louis and I to the venue, if you want, but after that we are not to be seen together._

_Wear modest clothing. In the meantime, I will talk to Louis and Monsieur Necker about increased representation anyway._

_Marie'_

* * *

 

 **January 23, 1789**  
**Le Château de Versailles**  
**France's Bedchamber**

France's eyes opened, and all he knew was that his back was on fire.

He arched against it, screaming as the heat scorched his open flesh. The smell of his own skin burning, like frying meat, wafted to his nose. It clung right to the inside of his cheekbones, and he gagged against it. He peered over his shoulder and a jolt of panic cut through him at the sight of yellow and orange flames.

Versailles was actually on fire. His room was on fire. His bed was on fire.

His back was _on_. _fire_.

Time - and pain - caught back up to him, and he rolled away from the flames to the other side of his bed. His charred flesh made contact with the blankets and the agony ripped another scream from his throat. Burning, burning, burning!

France reached his stomach on the other side of his bed, but as soon as he was still, the blankets cinched tighter and tighter around him. Pocketing and rolling around each of his limbs and holding him in place. He watched in horror as the flames caught the sheets and pillows, crawling closer and closer to him. The sweat started to roll off of him from everywhere, salting his wound even more.

The smell of his burning flesh turned into the smell of smoke. Filling his lungs, stuffing them with ash. He choked and coughed, feeling the heat grow and grow as the flames behind him inched closer and closer and closer. The only thing he could do was wail in fear. He had to watch the fire lick closer and closer, trying with all of him to lean as far away from it as he could. Until they finally touched his back again. Hot, hot, hot!

France felt his skin turn thick and gummy. He felt his skin melting off, the muscle burning away, his nerves alight from it. Scorching fingers squeezed themselves between the two flaps of skin. Grabbed the sides, and ripped them open. Tugged at the tops and bottoms until the cut grew, stretching even almost to the front of him, destroying everything until it exposed even his bone. His blood boiled.

He screamed. He screamed in a way he had never screamed before.

"Wake up! France, wake up!"

His eyes actually opened.

His back was still on fire, but as his eyes roved around his room, there was no more real fire. He was still on his stomach, lying on something uncomfortably wet. He tried to move, but it wasn't the blankets holding him down. It was people. He couldn't crane his neck around enough to see who, but they had hands on his shoulders and knees, pushing him hard into the bed.

Looters. Rioters. They'd reached Versailles. They were here to rob him and kill him. Shoot him in the back of the head and leave him for dead while they stole everything from the room.

He panicked. He struggled and kicked as hard as he could with how weak his back felt. The muscles twitched and trembled, he tried everything he could to flip over.

"Is he awake?" someone asked.

"Yes, but-"

"Monsieur Bonnefoy-"

"Stay away from me! _Laissez-moi_!"

Footsteps circled from the other side of the bed around to his side, where his face was looking. They knelt down next to him and cupped his face hard, squeezing his cheeks. "Monsieur Bonnefoy, look at me. France."

France? A wave of burning pain washed over him, forcing him to freeze where he was. Luckily, long enough to see who it was that was talking to him. Buonnaroti, despite the blurriness.

"What are you-"

"Listen to me. Your cut has deepened, and grown larger over night. You were screaming in your sleep! We're almost done cleaning it out, but we need you to stay calm."

"Cleaning . . . "

"Yes. With alcohol. Brandy."

As if to confirm, France heard liquid sloshing around in a bottle behind him. "Alcohol . . . " France desperately tried to piece the facts together. No flames. They were cleaning his wound, not burning it. It was just the alcohol they were pouring on him. The hands he felt in the dream was just his scratch opening by itself. Buonnaroti was here to help. He was thrashing, so people held him down. It was wet because he was bleeding, and they poured alcohol on him.

"We have one more bit of it to clean out. Okay?"

"N-no!" he tried to protest. "You're hurting me-"

Buonnaroti squeezed his cheeks harder, cutting off his protests. "We have to. Do me a favor, and brace yourself, okay?"

France shook his head. "Don't touch me-"

Buonnaroti nodded over his shoulder. The liquid sloshed, and his back was on fire again. He moaned in pain, and pressed his face into the pillow as if he could wish it all away if he didn't look at it.

"Good," he said. "Almost done." He grabbed a towel or something else wet and rubbed it all up and down his back. Took another dry one and wiped around it, on the bruise. "Now we're going to let that air for a while, and then bandage it up."

And France was just supposed to be okay with all this? After they attacked him in his sleep? " . . . Ffffffffuck you," he finally settled on. In the wake of how hot his back felt everything else just felt cold. As soon as he stopped trembling in pain he continued to shiver, but he knew he couldn't pull the blanket up over himself.

"Watch your tone," came a voice from across the room. The person it belonged to stepped into France's field of vision, but kept his face purposefully turned away from him. He didn't need to see Louis' face. France knew it was him.

"Louis," he offered, as flatly as he felt.

"I know what caused this."

"Do you?" France asked through his teeth. "Of course you do! Always _right there_ with a solution, aren't you?"

"There is a rift between the government and the people. And now, for the first time, there is a tangible rift among the government itself. Between the Parliaments and me. I thought they would rule in favor of representation, but I was wrong."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" France snarled. Louis' face was still turned towards the wall. "Look at me!"

Louis refused. "I am going to enforce that Third Estate representation is doubled. Hopefully that makes you feel better." That was all Louis said. He walked out of the room, but France wasn't done.

"Get back here, Louis! You coward! Coward! You're going to lose this battle, you know that? You think you have all the power, but the people have more power than you ever will! I hope the Estates General crashes and burns! I hope the people finally stop swallowing the garbage you feed them! And then when they're standing over you, I hope you get a good, looooooong look at your countrymen, and I hope you at least have the goddamn COURAGE to look them in the eyes when they-"

"France, please. You'll only aggravate your back. He's gone."

_Britain,_

_Thank you for your concern-_

* * *

 

_I appreciate your desire to he-_

* * *

 

_Thank you for your letter.-_

* * *

 

_Britain,_

_I appreciate your offer._  
_Thank you, but no._

_I trust you understand how TERRIBLY TOKEN OF A RESPONSE THIS IS AND I'M ONLY SAYING IT FOR THE SAKE OF WHAT'S LEFT OF MY PRIDE AND DIGNITY AND I ACTUALLY WANT YOU TO COME OVER DESPERATELY PLEASE HELP ME_

* * *

 

France crinkled the paper in his hands and threw it into the fireplace. He couldn't bring himself to lie anymore. But he couldn't bring himself to admit defeat quite yet either. It was strange how easy it was to say it in front of Louis or Brienne, or even Necker. But admitting he needed help to other Nations, he couldn't bring the humiliation on himself.

Was it even about humiliation? Or fear?

What would he do if Britain crossed the Channel, took one look around France and said, "I can't help you?" What if Britain found him to be unsalvageable?

And then what if word spread around Europe that France was going to disappear? Spain and Prussia would weep, and mourn him. Austria would be furious for not sending Marie away or informing him sooner. Who'd be the first to jump in there and try to conquer his available territories - probably Austria, Prussia, Spain, maybe even Russia. Maybe Britain, but from what it sounded like Britain would take a while to mobilize. And their army would be no match for Prussia.

* * *

 

 _**May 5, 1789** _  
_**Hôtel des Menus-Plaisirs du Roi** _  
_**Versailles, France** _

France half-expected there to be trouble as he walked up to the foyer entrance. He half-expected the guards to stop him, ask him what he was doing there, ask him why he was so late. Instead, France simply held out his invitation as he walked past them, allowing them a quick glance then ducking between them through the doors.

"I'm an elected representative," he said on his way past.

 _"Honorary representative,_ " he reminded himself. So what? So what if the people didn't elect him? So what if Francis Bonnefoy's name was still in relative obscurity outside of the Palace? " _So he's taking handouts from the crown,_ " France said to himself, and quickly dismissed it. Nobody had to know why he was there. Only that he was there as a member of the Third Estate, and he was there to listen. Or maybe even help, if it felt right.

France's stomach churned at the thought of standing up and saying something. Calling attention to himself. How many of them remembered him from his former Paris excursions? Or, by extension, the occasional Bread Riot he used to lead? If he said anything, and then was recognized as being affiliated with Versailles, he'd be ruined. He'd destroy any credibility he'd ever have among them. Then again, nagging at the back of his mind, France knew that if National impulse dictated he say something, he'd say it whether he wanted to or not. No matter what, it would be something everyone needed to hear - either from a nobleman or a commoner.

France passed through the small, red-carpeted foyer. He turned a quick left through a red-curtained archway, and walked through the first drawing room. God, this place looked eerily like Versailles. Only red. The walls were white, with white and gold paneling. The floors were a white marble, complete with black diamonds. Posh gold and white settees and arm chairs, golden statues, ancient paintings, busts, globes, maps, and other knick-knacks decorated the room, just like the Palace. The only things that were different were the red carpets on the floor in the center of the room, and the red drapes they hung over the walls and windows.

France confidently passed straight through the room, garnering small, inquisitive stairs of the other stragglers gathered there. Either they weren't qualified to get in and arrived with representative friends, or they were only interested in the aftermath of the events. France could even sense the bubbling excitement that emanated off of their little clusters as they whispered quickly to themselves. He himself was feeling nervous, and with each step his heart seemed to thud louder and louder in his chest.

What was he so afraid of? Hah! He tried to sound confident. He couldn't even fool himself. Through the second drawing room, where a large staircase to the upper floors stretched straight above the doorway he entered. He walked around, maneuvering between it and a red velvet billiards table, straight up to the antechamber doors.

The Salle des États. Where his future was literally being discussed right behind those doors. France took a deep breath. He smoothed his beige best and made sure the collar of his plain, brown jacket was flipped. He made sure his cravat knot was properly hidden, he dusted off his black and quickly twirled his ponytail around his finger, just to give it that extra curl.

He opened the door. And entered into another red and white and gold foyer. Perfectly adjacent to where Louis and Marie would be. He could faintly hear Louis' soft voice, but couldn't quite make out what he was saying. There were three sets of doors on his immediate left. He could slip through one of those and go directly to the Third Estate, but he knew that would make far too much noise and draw way too much attention to himself. Especially with Louis giving a speech. Oh, my God. He was a room away from the Estates General. The Estates General, which hadn't been convened since 1614 under Louis XIII. Almost 200 years. France's entire future lay in that other room, in the hands of everybody gathered there.

He couldn't do this. Could he do this?

" _You can! Marie is expecting you_ ," he told himself sternly. " _You will not let her down. Not after what she did for you._ "

He latched on to that. Do it for Marie. Don't do it for yourself.

The stairs to the upper balcony loomed ahead of him. Curving up and to the left so he couldn't tell what awaited at their top. Like he was gazing into the depths of a maze, with the walls closing around him. Like if he took a single step in there he'd be lost forever-

" _You're being overdramatic! Three, two, one, GO!_ " he counted himself down. Before even he could protest himself he forced his feet to move. he climbed the stairs, but each one seemed to get higher and higher. Harder and harder. He turned the corner, and the antechamber opened up below him. France saw the clergy, seated directly across from where he was standing. The Second Estate was seated directly underneath the balcony, facing the First Estate directly. The Third Estate sat in the middle, but behind the two sections, filling out the most space. Even some of the Third Estate spilled into the sides and up onto the balconies.

Louis' speech grew louder as France drew closer. As he walked across the balcony and looked for the stairs that would take him down to the ground floor and the Third Estate, he tuned into Louis' words.  
  
" . . . have examined the budget, I am sure that you will propose effective plans to fix our budgetary problems. I am sure you we will work together to fix the problems permanently.

"I have long experience with the authority and power of being a just and good king. I know what it is like to be surrounded by faithful people who believe in the power of the monarchy. Yet, because I have the best interests of my people at heart, I believe that the three Estates assembled here will cooperate for the general good of the State. I declare myself the first friend of my people, and I welcome the representatives of the nation it is my glory to command by divine right."

France descended another set of curved steps at the end of the hallway, and reached the ground floor right as a mix of cheers rose up in Louis' wake. Delegates from the First and Second Estates called out, " _Brava, Majesté!_ " and other cries of support while the Third Estate remained deathly silent and still. They glanced at each other, they chatted, they did anything but clap for Louis. France decided then would be the best time to push through the crowd and find his seat, and luckily Louis had turned around to sit down anyway. France found a seat a few rows from the back, on the very edge of the long bench they set up to seat the Third Estate.

As he watched Marie, her eyes constantly roved across the crowd, obviously looking for him. When she glanced over where he was sitting, he sat up just a little bit straighter and met eyes with her over the heads and wigs. She visibly relaxed in her chair, smiling sweetly at him, and he nodded back.  
  
Jacques Necker, there at Louis' right hand side, stood from his stool next. France immediately noticed the other empty chair between Louis' and Necker's. That was the seat that would have been his.

"Messieurs, upon your election to this assembly, His Majesty asked you to draw up formal statements of your Estates' grievances, and the reforms you favored. As a result, His Majesty received some fifty to sixty thousand of these cahiers, which we compiled into a small and manageable list given their tendency of repetition. We wish to immediately begin addressing several of the grievances on which there was practical unanimity on the part of the First, Second, and Third Estates - the first of these being the regular and pre-determined meeting of this Estates General, and that this body should share lawmaking power and should vote the taxes. The second of these being that the taxes should be paid by all."

There was unanimity on that? How did that happen? How did the Second and First Estates go from scraping and clawing and stomping their feet about the taxes to suddenly tossing out their exemptions? France didn't understand.

"In addition to that, the Third Estate is willing to see the continuance of nobility with its rights and honors. However, they demand the suppression of feudal dues."

Ah, France supposed, it was probably a give-and-take. ' _You let us keep our privilege, and we'll let you have your taxes.'_ "

"The third is that due to the arbitrary, uncontrolled government now at the helm of France, there is a necessity of confining the government within just limits by establishing a constitution-"

People all around France applauded. They yelled out their joy and ascension, they clapped each other on the back as though they had already won. Several of the deputies tried to calm the crowd so Necker could continue, but it was several long, loud minutes before he was able to speak over everyone.

"This constitution, based on the Constitution of the newly formed United States of America, should define the rights of the King and of the people both, and it should henceforth be binding upon all. Such a constitution would guarantee, for example, individual liberty, the right to think and speak and right, no lettres de cachet to be issued by the Crown, and no censorship."

" _Wow. The Estates are going out on a far, far limb!_ " But France loved it regardless. Those kinds of civil liberties were just what the people needed to feel a bit less cornered and threatened. People from every Estate must have loved it, too. The whole room arose in cheers and shouts and heavy applause. France himself started to applaud. This kind of attitude about improving the lives of the people made him sort of happy, and gave him a bit of hope that this assembly would be amiable and helpful.

Necker waited until it was quiet, even stopping the deputies from quieting the noise. Once he felt he could be heard, he called out, "Before we begin any discussions on the aforementioned topics, let us first decide a date and time for this assembly to reconvene. Today is the 5th of May, 1789. Representatives of each Estate have proposed a weekly meeting. Are there any in opposition to that proposal?"

France felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up, as though waiting for someone to have a problem with a weekly convocation. He looked around, praying with all of him that nobody found reason to complain. Necker waited for about ten seconds before nodding. "Very good. You are all aware of the meeting tomorrow, on the 6th of May. Let us convene the Third Estates General of 1789 exactly a week from then: 15:00 on the 13th of May, 1789." He looked to Louis, and the King nodded his ascent as well.

Louis even stood up, and said to everyone, "I am pleased that you all are as dedicated to helping this country as I am." He raised his hands and gently applauded, turning to each Estate in turn. The room rose up again in applause. France scrutinized Louis' face, looking for any sing of flightiness, or insincerity. Just how willing was he to do everything he said he was going to do? He proved time and time again that his chief characteristic was the feebleness of his will. So how pleased was he, really? He looked to be confident - his eyes were raised, and he was able to scan his eyes across the crowd and meet people's' gazes. But when he dropped his hands, they crossed in front of him, and France watched his fingers straighten out and fiddle idly with the lace from his sleeves. The nervous tic that he never seemed to get rid of. Something in France's heart told him Louis wasn't going to stick to the plan. A spine-tingling unsureness told France that Louis was only going through the motions.

He looked over to Marie, and they met eyes. France lowered his chin and raised his eyebrows in a question. " _What do you think?_ "

Her lips pursed and she nodded quickly. She was sure of this.

"With that, gentlemen," Necker said, "we will close this assembly and reconvene tomorrow to begin discussions. Each Estate will meet with His Majesty separately, and vote on the-"

"We cannot begin the vote yet, Monsieur Necker, until we decide the nature of such a vote!" someone from the Third Estate yelled, shooting to his feet. They had kind of a whiny, tinny voice. Moderately unpleasant to France's ears, to the point where he found it annoying. The man it came from was small in build, short in comparison to the others around him, even standing. "We have asked His Majesty directly, and both the First and Second Estates, to consider that we vote by member, and not by Estate as a whole. And yet, an official decision on the voting has not been released."

Heads swiveled and stared at Louis in one, eerie motion. He visibly recoiled, sinking just a bit lower in his chair. Necker cleared his throat, quickly covering for him. "He has not yet made a decision."  
  
"This assembly has always voted by Estate!" a clergyman said.

The man was right there with a retort. "To vote by Estate would ONCE AGAIN outnumber the Third Estate, two to one. His Majesty was gracious enough to double our representation, but it means nothing if our Estate still only receives one vote."

"To vote by majority, we would need to verify the credentials of each member. Most of you are not statesmen, Monsieur-"

"Pardon me, but if being a statesman is the prerequisite, most men of the cloth would not be here." Ouch. That was a crushing blow to a lot of them. They shared disgruntled glances and sneers of contempt among them, while members of the Third Estate mumbled their cheers and ascents around France. "Everyone who has a seat here was elected here, by trusted men and women of France who want to see changes. Messieurs, this is a matter of life or death for Third Estate France, and a matter of power or impotence of this assembly. Until organized, this Estates General can do no business. And no organization can be effected until this crucial question is settled. By extension, I would like to pose the question to this assembly that we meet and vote as a unified and indivisible order, rather than each Estate meeting individually with His Majesty come voting time."

"You presume too much! The Second Estate WILL vote as a separate chamber-"

"And in doing so, you prove my point!"

Who was this man? He had a sort of power to his nasal voice and in the way he stood that France was drawn to. Unfortunately he was so far towards the front and France was so far towards the back he had no chance of seeing the man's face. But he had a powdered wig on, which probably meant he was a member of the upper middle class. One of the wealthier people of the Third Estate.

He continued, "We need to consider the abandonment of the class system, and the consequent numbers of the Third Estate. We have a right to larger numbers because we represent over nine-tenths of the population!"

Whoever that man was, they broke the floor. People of every Estate all around the room began shouting, pointing, voicing their opinions. France decided then was his chance, and he turned to the man next to him.

"Who is he?"

"The man who spoke?"

France nodded.

"Where've you been, under a rock? That's Maximilien Robespierre."

Robespierre. The legend. The hero of the Third Estate. France, momentarily star-struck, couldn't think of an appropriate response except to stare, open-mouthed at the person who told him. "That's Robespierre?"

"That's him."

"Oh." That was Robespierre. He was shorter than France thought he'd be. And his voice was kind of whiny and tinny sounding. Not deep and booming like France had imagined.

 Finally, Necker was able to call the assembly back to order. One by one people sat down, their voices quieted, and their whispers ceased. "I want to thank you for bringing this subject to the attention of His Majesty. He will consider both sides of the argument. This Estates General is now closed."

Louis stood up so fast, France was amazed the chair didn't tip over behind him. He turned and strutted from the room as the Estates and watchers stood and began making their way from of the room. France briefly met eyes with Marie, but diverted his gaze in case she wanted to talk. He couldn't talk to her right now. He wanted to meet to Robespierre - no, needed to meet Robespierre. Needed to talk to Robespierre.

It sparked in his heart like a lantern flickering to life, and everything about it just made sense to him. Like it felt right in his mind and in his heart and it even seemed to put an energized tingle into his legs and fingertips. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was pushing and shoving his way through the crowd of the Third Estate, searching for that man like a shark in the water. Like an animal hunting its prey. He kept stopping for a few seconds, offering quick pleasantries to people as they said things to him, shook his hand, made small talk, and France drew closer and closer to that wig, still unable to see his full face.

He lost sight of Robespierre as he made it through a doorway and turned the corner, and a brief panic made France pick up his pace. He crossed the threshold and found himself back in the foyer he entered through, with Robespierre off to the side engaged in conversation with a small group of people. France wanted to keep off to the side, but so close to Robespierre, combined with the compelling urge to just talk to him, France abandoned propriety and decency and interrupted their conversation to push his way to the center. Straight up to Robespierre.

Face to face with him.

France towered over him, as he thought. He had a mousy, pinched face that seemed to verify the sound of his voice. And a kind of square-shaped head that seemed to squeeze his features even further in. Large forehead, eyes spread wide and a comically large nose and small mouth. He looked nothing, absolutely nothing like France thought he would look. In his head he pictured a towering figure, a hero in every physical sense of the word. Robespierre looked so . . . normal, France didn't quite know what to do with himself. He'd only think of a good word for it much later, when he wasn't dumbfounded: underwhelming.

France stared and stared, to the point of impropriety. Making a fool of himself and he knew it. But he couldn't believe it. Hearing all that he heard, feeling all that he felt, and this man was supposed to . . . help. Relate to the people for their own sake and for the sake of the Crown and for France's sake. He finally decided that he should move, and do something, and so he bowed slightly.

"Monsieur Robespierre," he said. "Fffff . . . " he began. Almost hesitating to use his real name. No, he decided. He had to. Robespierre had to know who he was. The people probably wouldn't recognize him by now. "François Bonnefoy. Representative of the Third Estate. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Robespierre returned the bow, and when he straightened up, France could see him scrutinizing just as intensely as he had a moment ago. One eyebrow up, eyes traveling up and down France's modest outfit, his blonde hair. His sharp, naturally beautiful and capturing features. As Robespierre's eyes settled in France's, his stern gaze softened. His eyes clouded over, looking thoroughly confused, and awed, and shocked all at the same time. Lost in the depth of years and years of history and knowledge and . . . France.

"It's nice to meet you, Monsieur Bonnefoy. Where . . . ah-" he began. He almost stuttered. Almost. But then he caught himself, and seemed to blink himself back to reality. Back to the present. "Where were you elected from?"

"Marseilles," France lied. He quickly dropped the stiff, thick, well-rounded and proper accent of Versailles and Ils-de-France that was his norm and automatically adopted the flatter, brighter tones of Occital and Provençal French. He talked a few clicks faster than he was used to as well. He didn't have to try hard. He was so nervous the words poured from his mouth anyway. "I really enjoyed your speech. I want to thank you for standing up for Third Estate France. It is especially necessary now."

Robespierre nodded. "Thank you, Monsieur, thank you. This may be our only chance in a long while to make our voices known." He still sounded distant, and a bit hesitant. Staring at France with a mixture of intrigue and confusion. "What did you think of the proceedings?"

Oh, geez. Robespierre was asking for France's opinion. In front of all these people.

He didn't even have to think about what he had to say. It was like the words were being pulled from his tongue. "It's a simple fact! The clergy plus the nobility make it two to one! That's how it's always been, and it is a system designed against the common man! At that rate, we have always lost and always will lose. But if we vote as individuals, now the Third Estate has the majority." He paused, and the men around him nodded. "Ah, but Necker isn't stupid. He knows what he wants, and so does His Majesty. Necker means well, but he is a banker, not a statesman. And he is Swiss. The problem is that they don't live in the same world that we do."

How he thought to include words like "we" and "they" in the midst of his moment, he didn't know. National intuition, probably, saving him. Regardless, Robespierre's small smile grew, and he looked France up and down one last time. But in approval, not in scrutiny. "Where are you staying, Monsieur Bonnefoy?"

"Here, at the Menus-Plaisirs."

"As am I. Come to my room later, in the second floor apartments tonight. I'd be interested in hearing more of your thoughts on the affairs of the Third Estate."

" . . . I'd be delighted, Monsieur Robespierre."

* * *

 **May 6, 1789**  
Le Hôtel del Menus-Plaisirs  
Versailles, France

As France approached the door, with his heightened senses he could hear the chatter from the hallway. There were a few people in there, and they were arguing. Either that, or they were just passionate about something. France stopped where he was. Robespierre didn't tell him there'd be other people there. Maybe France got the time wrong. He quickly racked his brain for what time Robespierre told him to be there today. They stayed up so late talking and France was a little tired, but he swore Robespierre said to meet exactly two hours before the Estates-General met again.

France walked up to the door and pressed his ear against it, just to make sure he wasn't intruding on anything.

" _The First and Second Estates will never allow us the vote, now. Well done, Robespierre. You've called for the majority but now we cannot use it!_ " Whoever said it had a deep, rumbly voice.

" _A minor setback!_ " Robespierre's whiney voice replied. " _I was operating under the assumption that the Parliament and the Crown would consider them one and the same when they voted._ "

 _"That's your problem. You assume. Y_ _our mind moves a hundred miles an hour, and y_ _ou assume others are on the same page as you, but really we're several pages behind_   _you_."

" _Mirabeau, please. I_ _am working on convincing the other two Estates to see the rationale behind the direct vote._ "

" _If you need someone to vouch, I will_ ," someone different answered. They had a lighter, smooth and soothing kind of voice that France found pleasing to listen to. " _The American people struggled and died to implement the direct vote. And look how successful it is. The colonies are prospering! George Washington is a great man, holding true to the principles of the Enlightenment and the rights of men. When the power is with the people, and they use the principles of men and not of Kings, they will do great things._ "

 _"Monsieur Lafayette, the American colonies-_ "

Lafayette? The Marquis de Lafayette? Oh, crap. When he spent those few years in the colonies helping America, Lafayette came up with the plan to cut Britain's final retreat off at Yorktown. He was shot two or three times in several of America's greatest battles but continued to fight. France had never met a more passionate patriot for an ideology, being fought in a country that wasn't even his. Paris threw him a parade upon his return, Louis and Marie hosted a ball in honor of him. He helped negotiate the peace treaty between America and Britain and was at the negotiating table.

He could potentially recognize France from Versailles. France had met him once on the fly, and they hadn't talked. They just kissed cheeks and France left. Maybe he'd be safe. France very nearly turned back for the second time, but then he realized this was a risk he had to take. He had to talk to Robespierre before the Estates General. And plus, these people were probably all extremely popular among the Third Estate. France wanted as many connections as he could get.

Lafayette was such a powerful ally to have. The French people revered him. If he punched a clergyman in the face they would probably say, "Thank you." He was commanding, he was a do-or-die kind of man and with someone like that to argue for something in addition to having fought for, it was difficult for anybody to stand against him on principle alone, never mind in agreement.

France was knocking on Robespierre's door before he even knew what he was doing. As soon as his knuckls hit, the chatter inside died down immediately, slightly frightening him.

" _Expecting someone, Robespierre?_ " the rumbly voice asked.

" _I am. A Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy, elected from Marseilles._ "

" _Marseilles? Then that's who they got to replace me? But what about-_ "

" _Quiet, gentlemen! Come in_!"

France opened the door, and felt the harsh stares of everyone swivel over to him at once. France could feel his face and ears growing hot in embarrassment. He resisted the urge to crumple in on himself against the ferocity, opting to stare at the pleasantly-smiling Robespierre instead. "Monsieur-" he tried to say, but it came out in a whisper. He cursed his tongue, clearing his throat to try again. "Monsieur Robespierre."

"Monsieur Bonnefoy, I'd like to introduce you to some friends of mine." He gestured grandly into the room, and France saw three people, not the two others he originally thought. Robespierre's hand rested first on a man dressed in the French ceremonial military uniform. Black jacket, with off-white lapels scarlet red collar. Silver buttons trailing all down the front, with shiny gold epaulettes on his shoulders. He had so many medals and displays of rank it was dizzying to look at the front of his jacket. Underneath, his white vest was edged with stitched gold, and his white pants were so crips and clean, he looked too smooth and pristine to be real. His black and gold tricorn hat sat beside the settee where he sat.

"The Monsieur Marquis de Lafayette."

When he stood up, he was so tall France had to incline his head back to see his face. His left hand rested on the hit of the sword attached at his hip while his right hand extended out towards France.

How American of him.

France took his hand and Lafayette crushed it in his. "Monsieur," he said.

He had a round, full face and high, pronounced cheek bones. With thin delicate looking lips and a sharp, button nose. His close-set eyes were bright with youthful vitality. He was handsome. Extremely, extremely handsome. Powdered wig with cute curls all around. France smiled despite himself, leaning in instead to kiss both his cheeks. When France looked at him, his heart swelled with a sense of pride at his citizen. The Marquis had achieved such great things in his lifetime and he was a Frenchman who would be remembered for centuries.

"Monsieur le Marquis," France said, fighting back the tears of pain that almost sprang to his eyes from his crushing grip. "I fought under your command in America. I was in Yorktown."

"You fought in America? My apologies, I regret not meeting you sooner."

"It's okay. Truly an honor. You are a hero to the American Nation and to the Kingdom of France."

"Thank you." He smiled. Good. He didn't seem to remember France.

"This is the Comte de Mirabeau, Honoré Gabriel Riqueti."

"Delighted," he muttered from his seat, not bothering to stand. Or even turn to look at France. He owned the deep voice France heard earlier, and France decided to take a few more steps into the room to get a good look at him.

His face was covered with pockmarks and his right eye drooped just a little lower on his face from it. He could only breath through his mouth in large puffs between sentences. He had a long, flat nose and a thin line that was his continuously pursed lips. Mirabeau's green jacket looked like it wouldn't button over his tummy even if he tried, and his vest was clearly suffering. France nodded towards him, but he did not return the favor. He probably thought France couldn't be trusted, but either way . . .

" _Oh God, he hates me_ ," France decided, trying not to display the hurt on his face.

"The quiet one in the back is Emannuel Joseph Sieyès," Robespierre said, pointing to another man who had been silent earlier. He wore the all-black clothing of the clergy, with the black and white cravat to complete it. He didn't stand either, but nodded his hello. "He is the author of ' _What is_ -'"

"'- _the Third Estate_ ,'" France finished for him. France had never read the work. He didn't even know how he knew that. Those kinds of writings stayed away from the gates of Versailles. It was probably a miracle that Marie managed to procure a paper from Paris in the first place to inform him about representation. "It's a pleasure."

"Likewise."

Mirabeau puffed in a breath. "So, you're from Marseilles?" he asked, staring hard at France.

"Oui."

"What happened to Monsieur Jourdin?"

France didn't have a clue who he was talking about. " _Pardon_?"

"I don't remember your name among the elected officials. I was fortunate enough to have been elected to Aix and Marseilles, and I chose to represent Aix. They had a Monsieur Louis-Joseph Jourdin replace me. And yet here you are." He gestured to France, and his squinty, off-set eyes heavily scrutinized France's face.

" _Je . . . je ne sais pas . . ._ " God, he sounded so weak. His Marseilles cover would be blown and he'd be made a liar to the men who were probably some of the most influential people in France. And then he'd have to make up another lie and try to convince them that one was real.

"Are you  _really_  from Marseilles?" Puff. "Can we trust him, Robespierre?" Puff.

Normally, France would have fired back, on the offensive.  _No, I'm only part of the Third Estate who befriended your front man, Maximilien Robespierre_ _. I couldn't possibly be on your side_. But he was too scared to move, too scared to speak. He didn't want to ruin any chance he had of befriending Robespierre.

Robespierre was important, France knew that. He knew that even when he was still at Versailles. But after meeting him, and talking to him, and knowing him for  _one day_  and hearing just a fraction of his ideas, France could feel it in his heart. Something National that he couldn't put a name to drew hm to Robespierre. France wanted to be close to him all the time. He wanted to hear Robespierre speak no matter what he was saying and he could practically feel his very soul clinging to his words.

He couldn't ruin that. He could  _not_  ruin that.

"Leave him alone, Mirabeau. I trust him."

"You met him yesterday."

Robespierre paused, glancing at France. France stared back, trying to plead with his eyes that Robespierre cover for him. Praying that a man who barely knew him was going to cover for him against a man who barely knew him while in a room full of people who barely knew him. This was bad. " . . . I know. But look at him." He stared into France's eyes. "He was elected to the Estates General. Many people must know him and trust him to make their voices heard. I now know he was a soldier who fought in America, so he fought for the very concepts and ideas we now discuss here. He's quite young, so he's probably grown up around the Enlightenment ideas. Look into his eyes, Mirabeau. He's a  _Frenchman_ , if ever I've seen one."

"Quite a handsome Frenchman, too," Lafayette offered.

France winked at him and nodded his thanks.

Robespierre gestured wildly to Lafayette. "You see? Monsieur le Marquis, would you trust him?"

France slid his eyes to Lafayette next, and it was Lafayette's turn to be lost in the depth of France's old eyes, the way Robespierre was only a day before. Lafayette's eyes seemed to glaze over, a small grin split his cute face, and his one eyebrow lifted. "I would."

"Fine," Mirabeau relented. "But this talk doesn't leave this room, do you understand? This is treason level stuff. Treason and sedition!"

"I understand," France said. "I am here to discuss your ideas for defending and supporting the Third Estate. That is all. I want to help as much as I can." From what he heard, these men were more focused on the social aspect of France than they were on the political aspect of France. But that was alright. France could work with them. He could work with them and work the political fixes into their discussions however he could. And maybe even contribute to the social end of things if he could. Though, he admit, all this time he kept the ideas and feelings of the Enlightenment carefully tucked away so as to not alarm anyone at Versailles. Talk of the people in general, let alone talk of the civil liberties they wanted, did not belong in the hallowed halls. In the glittering and perfect scene that was Versailles.

"Mirabeau," Robespierre started. "If we disallow him his involvement and we silence his opinions, we negate everything we're fighting for."

"He's allowed to have an opinion! And so are we! But we don't know who he knows, and if his mouth flaps to the wrong people, we'll be jailed.  _Jailed_ , Robespierre!"

"And you'll escape again, like you did the other times," Lafayette said.

"Of course, just tell him  _all_  of our secrets!"

Robespierre sighed. "You're impossible. Monsieur Bonnefoy, what is important to you? What are the things you want to see this Estates General accomplish?"

"How much time do you have?" he asked. The men chuckled, but France was only half joking. If Robespierre wanted to know, France would tell him. If Robespierre wanted it in Shakespearean English and hand-written on pink, rose-smelling parchment, France would do it. He would tell Robespierre anything he wanted to know, just for him to  _know_.

His very presence exuded the power of action, and France could say he respected it completely.

"Ummm . . . " France began. "I want . . . relief for the Third Estate. I want the taxes to be shared by all - if not completely, at least to  _some_  degree. I want the Crown to stop spending so frivolously and I want them to start paying off this  _stupid_  debt we accumulated from aiding America-"

"Did you support the decision to aid America?" Lafayette asked quickly.

"I . . . Yes, I do now. Not at first, I didn't," he admitted. "I was well-read in Rousseau and Montesquieu and Hobbes and I would have considered myself an Enlightened thinker then, but it took me years to realize the war wasn't just an unnecessary expense, and it wasn't just an extraneous way to one-up Great Britain. When I went overseas to America, and I saw the Enlightenment in action, and I saw the passion of the American people and the hope they felt and the freedom they wanted, I quickly changed my mind." He was so jealous of America for a bit, but when he got back, Versailles immediately deadened a lot of the emotions he felt. He couldn't think about the Enlightenment, he had to think about the burgeoning political crisis. And even when he did think about it, it wasn't exactly the Enlightenment for people's sake. It was Enlightenment for Louis' sake and came out of his mouth like Louis had to solve the problems or else France would die. And the end of that sentence could be splintered into so many pieces France never explored any of them with any real depth. All he told Louis was that he was in pain and he had to solve it, and solve it quickly; and France told him how but he didn't do it and here they were.

For the first time, France felt mentally threatened by the sentence, " _I_  could have done better." He perpetually attacked Louis and told him that  _he_  could have done better, and he always excluded himself. " _God, France, take some responsibility FOR ONCE!"_  France quickly shook his head of it, not even realizing that he was shaking his head for Robespierre, Lafayette, Mirabeau, and Sieyès to see.

"It took me years to realize the implications. Years to understand that the American Revolution was unlike any war in the in the history of man. It was a war of ideals, between long-standing tradition and the outlandish  _notion_  of humanity - of the freedom and liberation of mankind. The idea that the station in life a man may be born into, whether he is black or white, Catholic or Protestant, rich or poor, slave or free, does not make a difference. Instead it is the way that he carries himself, and by the way in which that man will prove himself in this world that determines how far he can go." He thought of how kind and generous and open-minded and accepting America was after that. The brotherhood between citizens and the idea that all men were equal, and how beautiful that was. They sparkled in America's eyes like stars and France could only wish jealously that Louis would see it some day.

He raised his eyes and saw Robespierre and Lafayette smiling slightly. Robespierre's eyes were wide , and his mouth was slightly open in awe. "That was extremely well-said, Monsieur. I loved the way you phrased it."

"It's the truth. I want . . . let's see, the taxes, the debt . . . I want a stronger King on the throne, who won't be swayed by the last person he talks to. The monarchy is the weakest its been since Louis XIII - nearly two hundred years ago. The last time the Estates General was called was in 1614. I want empathy for the Third Estate who is suffering under the chains of a feudalist system that is antiquated and outdated. I want better legislation to help them secure the basic necessities of life when things like poor harvests happen. I want fixed prices of bread and I want . . . "

"You support the monarchy, Monsieur Bonnefoy," Mirabeau growled, his distaste for France evident in his glare. It wasn't a question. It was a clear accusation. Instantly threatened, France's eyes hardened despite the friendliness he wanted to display. He glared back at Mirabeau, irritated by his constant suspicion. Mirabeau was able to hold on for about three more seconds before he bristled uncomfortably and looked away.

Lafayette chuckled awkwardly. "Well," he said. "That's a clear 'no.'" He mistook France's icy stare as an insult of the assumption rather than an offense to his loyalty.

"I support anything that will help France at this point. don't care if it's a freer type of monarchy. I don't care if it's  _anarchy_. If it will ease this Nation's suffering, I will do it. I will participate with my full being."

"That, to me, says you are unfaithful to all! Even to the ideals you so passionately claimed," Mirabeau argued back. "What if feudalism would help this country? You would renounce the ideas of the Enlightenment in favor of unsound politics?"

France shouldn't have said that. He backed himself in a dangerous verbal corner. Desperate to dig himself out, he carefully selected his next words, hoping they couldn't see the calculation on his face, even when his eyes betrayed him and flicked anxiously. A small ache started in his back, at the very center of his wound, carefully bandaged under his jacket. A gentle throbbing. Like it sensed his immediate peril. "No. I didn't mean it exactly literally. All I was saying was that I'm desperate to see this country improve. I'm desperate to see France's wounds heal."

"Mirabeau, I know you doubt him, but Monsieur Bonnefoy is a true politician," Sieyès said. The first thing he said since France started their discussion. "He places his hope in legislation first. He still holds Enlightened thoughts and ideals, so do not fault him for it."

Robespierre nodded. "Indeed, because if we combine his political ideas with our social ideas, we can build the perfect society of free men, protected by that legislation. What are some legislative ideas you have?"

"I want exemptions removed from the First and Second Estates. I want suspensions on loan payments outlawed until the Crown chips away at this debt. I want protections for land farmers and for laborers and tradesmen, like I mentioned. I want civil liberties for the people - when the constitution was mentioned, I really, really liked that idea. I think we should take it and run with it."  _Listen to yourself, France_ , he thought,  _so wrapped up in your brand new, egalitarian ideas_.

Of course it was the people he was around. But these were the people he  _needed_  to be around and whether he knew it or not these were the people who were probably going to drive France in the direction he  _needed_  to go in. And it wasn't like he was lying. With each word he said, and each word Robespierre said, France could feel the genuine interest building in his heart and in his mind. He could feel the truth that had been so suppressed by Versailles overtaking his mind and consuming him.

He rather enjoyed it, he thought, smiling sightly to himself.

Robespierre crossed his arms. "There are still several things I want the Third Estate to push on the top two Estates as well, but until we correct the unfair voting, we won't be able to get a thing done. Rousseau argues for seven great pillars of Enlightenment. Human autonomy," he said, holding a finger up. "People absolutely  _should_  and  _must_  have control over ourselves. What we explore, what we reason through, and what we desire for ourselves, no matter our origins. Next, the Enlightenment champions reason over all. True freedom means being able to think for yourself. Knowledge  _can_  be both mapped out by men, be  _accessed_  by men, and be  _rationalized_  by men." With each emphasized word, Robespierre nodded his head and made strong eye contact with everyone in the room, including France. "Gone are the days when we blindly believe what the Church tells us and what the State forces us to believe. Instead we must build the State to have a limited control over our lives, perhaps even none at all."

The wording was so eloquent and perfect. Like they were meant to tumble from Robespierre's mouth in just that exact order. And there was never another way to say them and there never would be another way to say them that sounded so natural and so perfect. And they resonated deep inside of him, amplified by Robespierre's passion and unwieldy genuineness. France knew he was in the presence of someone brilliant. One of only a handful of humans who were so ahead of their time and, no pun intended, revolutionary. People like Jeanne, and Philip IV.

It was no wonder France was drawn to him. He would do great things. His single utterance could cloak the country in hope or in fear.

"And the Enlightenment is universal! It does not stop at the borders of France, or at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. All human beings possess the ability to be enlightened, and humans are equal by nature. We are all part of a "universal community" who share a single universal human nature. Differences among people are less important than their fundamental sameness.

"The Enlightenment is progress. Humanity will progress from immaturity, superstition, and slavery to maturity, reason, and freedom. It extends into secularism. Religion and politics  _should_  be separated. One's method of worship should be private, and should not be infringed upon.

"It dictates a necessity to know economics and politics, which I'm sure is where your expertise lies, Monsieur Bonnefoy."

"A society's well-being depends on how its economy is structured. It's part of why France is failing," he replied

"Yes, exactly!" he said, nodding so quickly France thought his neck would break. "And last, but certainly not least, the Enlightenment means popular government! People are capable of ruling themselves. The aristocracy is not the only class that deserved to rule. The middle class, or bourgeoisie, should also play a part in politics. ' _We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these_   _ends_ -'"

When France first saw the American Declaration of Independence, he read and reread that section over and over and over again. He memorized it, he practically bowed down to it. He could have quoted it in his sleep, and when Robespierre began quoting it, he said it right along with him in his head. The last section was the  _coup de grâce_  in France's current idiom. And when Robespierre reached it, he couldn't help himself. It wasn't enough to just think it. He had to  _say_  it. He picked it up where Robespierre left off and finished for him. "'- _it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.''_ '

"You're brilliant. Isn't he brilliant?" he asked everybody in the room. At their nods and sounds of ascension, he continued. "I liked you as soon as I looked at you, Monsieur."

" _Merci_ ," France said softly. Before he could help himself his eyes shot to Mirabeau, panting on the couch.  _See?_  he said to himself.  _Told you_. "And that was without a single drop of wine!"

Everyone, even Mirabeau, got a laugh out of that, and France beamed back. A genuine smile - the first one he made since entering the room. If there were any other reservations about him, his joke broke through the mood and lightened it infinitely. He felt like he could insert some of his fun, joking, charismatic personality and not worry about his impression anymore. Not yet, though. This was a serious subject.

"Now is the perfect time to insert these theories into the minds of the nobility, since the Crown is weak, like I said. Much of the nobility has already been discussing them, but half-heartedly, like it's a new trend. We have to show them we're serious. We have to show them that in addition to the legislative failures of the Crown we're not going to negate the social failures of the Crown. I'm so sick of Louis and  _everybody_  thinking they can walk all over-" His fists clenched at his sides, and he knew he had to calm down. The four of them were looking at him with a mixture of absolute awe and a kind of tense fear.

"Any law which violates the inalienable rights of man is essentially unjust and tyrannical. It is not a law at all," Robespierre said. "Well said, Monsieur Bonnefoy."

"Call me François."

"François. Well articulated. I can say that I am extremely glad to have met you."

"As am I. All of you gentlemen, thank you."

For the first time, Sieyès spoke up from his hiding spot towards the back of the room. "We have the ideals,  _Messieurs_ , but before we can argue any of our ideals, we must force the upper Estates to realize the legitimacy of the Third Estate. The Third Estate is a complete nation in and of itself. We have the land workers who provide food and water. We have tradesmen and human industry to make goods and services. We have the merchants and dealers to sell the goods and services, and we have everybody else who takes up all other jobs and positions and services necessary. Without the upper two Estates, the Third Estate could be self-sustaining."

France didn't know where he was going wit that, but a lightbulb went off in Robespierre's mind. His eyes lit up and he stood up a little straighter with a small gasp. "We need to convince the upper Estates that we do not need them! Think about it this way: the first two Estates are carriages, and we are the horses. How long has the Third Estate dragged the weight of the other two behind us? That is the nature of feudalism, gentlemen! So, if we want to throw off feudalism, we need to show them that we could do so much more without their burden! We could continue running on and prospering if we dumped their weight, where as in reverse, they could not even move without us." By then he was speaking a mile a minute, and France was having a hard time keeping up. "I need to write that down!" He scrambled over to the only desk in the room and started digging down the front of his vest. He dipped his hand down past the halfway point of his forearm and emerged with a square of parchment, which he slapped on the desk. He grabbed the pen from the inkwell and started scribbling furiously.

He continued to talk, jotting down specific words as he said them and whole sentences.

" . . . and then the Third Estate, right, right . . . vote my member and not by chamber . . . can act as its own nation- wait!" he gasped. "Wait, wait, wait!" He paused, freezing so completely France would have sworn his mind left for a moment. " _Messieurs_. I just had an epiphany. The Third Estate can act as its own nation. Why don't we make it one?" He looked to each man in the room, but France was certain they all were just as confused as he was. He quickly checked to see what Lafayette's face looked like, and he felt a little better when he saw Lafayette's eyebrows furrowed and a confused sneer on his face. Robespierre continued, "Why do we need the Estates General if we could, in theory, do what we want anyway? What if we form our own body, where the Third Estate can vote by member on Third Estate happenings? We can leave the other two Estates alone, if we'd like, or they can join us, even! It doesn't have to be exclusive! But my point is to make a body or an assembly that represents the nation in a way that the Estates General cannot during this stalemate."

"Yes," Mirabeau said, inching to the edge of his seat, despite the fact that it probably took most of his effort. "A National Assembly."

"A National Assembly! Excellent, Mirabeau! Excellent!"

France watched the cogs in Robespierre's mind turn as he negotiated his way around the stalemate. There was someone extremely smart, extremely logical and methodical, but applied to concepts completely obscure and abstract. France understood in that instant why he was so drawn to Robespierre and why the people were so drawn to Robespierre. He could talk, he could write, and he had the ideology and the passion to back himself up. He was such a joy to watch and listen to. He was full of energy and charisma, and yet he spoke the same way he would talk to anybody. His very utterance held a certain power over hearts and minds that France loved.

"We'll talk more about this within the next few days. But until then, let us head over to the  _Salle des États._  Something like a National Assembly would not be taken to kindly in the slightest. Let's see if this will sort itself out without drastic intervention."

The whole time, Robespierre's eyes looked glassy an a bit distant. He was thinking about that National Assembly the whole time, developing it in his head.

Somehow, France felt Robespierre would try and do it no matter what. The idea tantalized Robespierre. Now he was bound to go after it.

* * *

 _**June 11th, 1789  
** _ **Le Hôtel des Menus-Plaisirs  
** **Versailles, France**

France followed Robespierre up to his rooms, and as soon as the door shut behind them, he flopped down on one of the couches. "I hope you have a plan for introducing the National Assembly today, because this is getting us nowhere," France said.

"And we do!" Robespierre insisted, but that was all he said. France looked over at him. His eyes had that distant look to them again. He was thinking, and thinking hard. Planning.

"What are you thinking?" France asked him.

"I'm thinking that we stop trying to coddle and swindle the Estates to our side. No, what we  _need_ ," Robespierre said, shaking his finger in the air as though to hammer the point home, "is to simply do. The people will be more moved by action than they will be by words, François. I guarantee, if we simply announce that we will meet in separate chambers but vote by member and not by Estate, those of the First and Second Estates sympathetic to our cause will join us. The parish priests and commoners who worked for their station."

"I think you're overestimating the strength of their sympathies. It'll never outweigh the power of their privilege. Who in their right mind would speak out against it and threaten losing it?"

"You say you're from Marseilles, François? Then you've been too far removed from the talk of Paris. Those who sympathize with us will join us. And once they do, we will have full power to separate ourselves from the Estates General. We can become our own entity, and we can do what this Estates General cannot. Which is organize. Organize the people, organize our actions, and then act."

"Act on what? I've been thinking about this 'National Assembly', and I don't know about it. I don't think it's going to be so helpful, only because nobody will take it seriously. What makes you think the King will stand for this? Or acknowledge anything we do? Anything we try to pass will be deemed irrelevant and illegal."

"How better to get the King to acknowledge our actions than by peacefully defying him? As both a revolutionary act, and an assertion that all political authority lies with us? Listen to me," he said, leaning forward. There was that signature Robespierre charm. His eyes were alight again, and despite his nerves, France felt himself drawn in, eager to hear what Robespierre was about to say. "If we prove to the nobility that not only  _can_  we derive our own power, but we  _will_ , they will have no choice but to acknowledge us. We only have a few more meetings before the individualized Estates meetings. We must announce our plans before then, to give those who wish to meet with us time to consider. I had Mirabeau draft a speech just for this purpose. You will hear it today. It's quite brilliant," he said, smiling absently at France. "He refers to us as the National Assembly. Once he uses it today, it will surely be our new name."

A nagging feeling in France's stomach made him uneasy. He sighed. "I just . . . I don't know. I get a bad feeling about this." Something was definitely wrong, but France knew he wouldn't be able to voice his National warnings without it seeming like regular superstition, or paranoia. Instead, Robespierre offered reassurance, said it would be fine, then led France down to the Estates General.

France's legs felt like lead. A muscle in his back kept twitching and bulging against his will, aggravating the whole thing. He didn't want to go to the Estates General and hear Mirabeau's speech. Something didn't feel right about it. And yet, when France entered the room, he felt fine. His back stopped twitching.

How bad could it be?

As soon as the Third Estate had the floor, Robespierre's friend Mirabeau stood and delivered a his speech directly to the upper two Estates.

While he spoke, France felt a nervous sweat start under his coat and vest. The beads pooled together and dripped into his cut, forcing him to tense at random moments and bite back him pain. With each word Mirabeau spoke, France's breathing seemed to become shallower and shallower, faster and faster. He couldn't take a deep enough breath to calm himself down. The only thought in his mind kept repeating, over and over. " _Something's happening. Something's happening. Something's happening._ " That muscle started twitching again. He couldn't help himself. His toes curled up inside his shoe, and his leg rolled onto the ball foot to bounce nervously. " _Something's happening-_ "

Mirabeau spun dramatically to address everyone in the room while he was talking. "For myself, girt with my conscience and armed with my principles, I would brave the universe-" Pause for a puff. "-whether it shall be my fortune to serve you with my voice and my exertions in a National Assembly, or whether I shall be enabled to aid you there with my prayers only. I have been, I am, I shall be, even to the tomb, the man of the public liberty, the man of the people rather than of the nobles." Puff. "Then woe to the privileged orders. For privileges shall have an end, but the people are eternal! Our new  _National Assembly_  is eternal!"

In one fluid motion, everyone from the Third Estate rose and began filing out of the room. France realized that Robespierre had already planned it, and spoke to the other representatives ahead of time. France stood up with them. Froze in his place. Took a step. Froze. His legs were shaking. His knees were trembling.

Looked around. Met eyes with Marie.

If he left with them now, he abandoned Louis and Marie. If he left, he made his decision, choosing the people over them. And if he didn't leave with them, he proved himself the ultimate hypocrite, forever a slave to the will of the Crown over him. The Crown that had weakened, suppressed, and injured him time and time again, and in full knowledge of what they were doing.

It should have been an easy decision. He shouldn't have even hesitated. But staring there, into Marie's eyes, he could see the fear. He could see the abandonment. He could see hopelessness. France looked at Louis, saw the disinterest there in his eyes. He saw the disconnect, the apathy that had been his constant companion. Until, like on a rope, Louis' eyes slid over to France's. They widened in surprise, he sat up perfectly straight and stared wide-eyed at France over the crowd. " _What are you doing?_ " he mouthed to him.

And France made his decision.

Not Louis. Never Louis, when he could help it.

" _I'm sorry Marie_ ," he said with his eyes, hoping she heard it.

France waded through the crowd until he found Robespierre and Mirabeau and Lafayette. Looking everywhere but at Louis and Marie. And he walked out of the Estates General with the Third Estate. The new National Assembly. Robespierre was already chatting excitedly about where and when they were going to meet. What they were going to do. And in an instant his nerves were gone, replaced with an energizing determination

He made the right choice.

_'My dearest Marie Antoinette,_

_There are no words to describe my gratitude for all you have done for me. But I realize now that my place is here, among the Third Estate. I do not do this with any intention of slighting you; rather, I do it out of concern for my well-being. I feel safest with it placed in the hands of people who can and will act quickly._

_I do not yet know what this future with them holds for me. But should this mess sort itself out, and I find myself in a well-enough position, Nationally and personally, to return to Versailles, to you and Louis, I will do so with the utmost of joy in my heart. Until then, pray for the successes of the people, and pray for the prosperity of your country._

_Send my regards to Austria._

_Le Royaume de France'_

* * *

_'Louis,_

_I wish you could have seen the damage you were doing to me while I was at Versailles. But you refused, and so now I do what I have to do. I am officially removed from your personal services, and the services of the Crown._

_Good bye, Louis._

_Bonne chance._

_Le Royaume de France'_

* * *

_**A/N: As of this chapter, Horrible Bosses: Louis XVI of France is over 200,000 words! (Almost. lol. I can math.) This chapter specifically is 27,600 words EXACTLY!** _

**_I can't thank you guys enough for following and favoriting. And for sticking with this fic despite my huge gaps in updates. Please leave a comment if you have the time, because they give me life! I love writing this fic regardless, but hearing from you guys with your praises, your critiques, your head canons, and everything in between makes me so happy!_ **

**_Thank you, thank you, thank you, and I love you!_ **

**_~Keyblader_ **

**_***********3/17/17 - Updated to include France's introduction with other Revolutionaries, and a changed last section!***********_ **

* * *

**_A/N: GUYS!_ **

**_There's this AMAZING Hetalia artist on Tumblr - thedisappointedidealist12. http://thedisappointedidealist12.tumblr.com/tagged/hetalia_**

**_They do a lot of historical!Hetalia fan art, specifically France pieces and pieces on the French Revolution. This is one of their works I stumbled across after following them for a while. I have their permission to post this, and credit them with their work:_ **

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_**This image just suited this fanfiction so well and it's so well done. All of their art is, so please check out their Tumblr if you can!** _

_**~Keyblader** _


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